Just Like You
by Lampito
Summary: A werewolf hunt has some unanticipated consequences, leading Dean to wonder: was his Dad just exasperated, or did John actually put The Dreaded Parent's Curse on him?  COMPLETE.    **Thank you, FFN techs, we're back online!  Huzzah!**
1. Prologue

AAAAAARGH! Frigging plot bunnies! I've just worked the 'Balls' one out of my system, and this damned thing comes hopping along! AAAAAARGH! It will - not - leave - me - ALONE! Somebody finds a cure for plot bunnies, they'll make a bloody fortune. STOP TORTURING ME YOU VICIOUS LITTLE BASTARDS! This one could be a bit painful, since the Chocolate Powered Inspiration Update Fairy seems to have gone on leave, but we'll see how we go, I'm not going to get any sleep until I exorcise it, and no, Latin doesn't work, grud knows I've tried...

DISCLAIMER: None of it is mine, although I wouldn't mind become better acquainted with Bobby Singer. He's a man ofintelligence, property, education, and literature. I'd even put up with those bickering oiks who show up in that muscle car from time to time.

TITLE: Just Like You.

SUMMARY: A werewolf hunt has some unanticipated consequences, leading Dean to wonder: was his Dad just exasperated, or did John actually put The Dreaded Parent's Curse on him?

SETTING: A Jimi the Half-Hellhound story. Set probably about a year after 'Balls', when Jimi is about 18 months old.

RATING: T. Dean talks. Need I say more?

BLAME: Those frigging plot bunnies. And the various individuals of questionable sanity who keep encouraging me. It's all their fault! Especially Bartlebead, Elf and Paulathe Cat. I think they're actually breeding the plot bunnies. Hey, separate the males and the females, will you?

* * *

**Prologue**

_Lawrence, Kansas. February 1983._

John picked up the flowers, and smiled to himself. He imagined the surprise on Mary's face – Friday, she'd be expecting him to hit a bar with some buddies, not come straight home, but, well, he had some ground to make up. She was having a hard time, he knew, although she rarely said anything: one small tearaway child, and another one on the way. The very idea of being a father, well, sometimes the idea of that sort of responsibility scared the shit out of him... _Time to man up, princess, _he told himself, heading for the front door.

She was in the kitchen, starting preparations for dinner, when he came up behind her and put the flowers on the sink in front of her. "Hey, sweetheart," he said, as she turned and smiled at him. "How's my wonderful wife?"

"Feeling decidedly pregnant," she told him, taking up the flowers and smelling them while John addressed her ever-expanding belly.

"You in there, stop giving your mother such a hard time, that is an order" he told it sternly. She swatted at him.

"I'll put these in water," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Can I do something to help?" he asked, eyeing the preparations underway.

"Actually, yes," she told him brightly, "I want you to go upstairs and kill our son."

John blinked, and did a double-take. He'd thought it was too quiet, and realised that the reason for the relative tranquillity was the absence of a certain small, blonde, noisy tornado.

He smiled uncertainly. "Er, that's funny," he started, "I thought you said you wanted me to go upstairs and kill Dean."

"Yes, that's right," she confirmed, her smile just a tad brittle, "He's in his room. Go upstairs and kill him, will you?"

"Oh. Er." He was at a loss. He knew about pregnancy making women hormonal, but_... Oh, God, what had the kid done?_

"Um," he stumbled, "Er, do you want me to, er, how do I do it? Strangle him? Smother him? Tickle him to death?"

"Or break his neck," she suggested, shoving the flowers into the vase just a bit more roughly than was probably necessary, "Something that won't leave blood on the carpet. You have no idea how hard it is to get blood out of carpet."

"Er, no, no, I don't," he agreed. "So, er, I'll just go up, and, er, kill our firstborn, then."

"Thanks, honey," she said, pecking him on the cheek and returning to chopping vegetables with a vicious precision that worried him just a little.

He was barely up the stairs when he saw why he was being deployed to murder the kid. There on the wall was a mural executed in garish colours: it was an ambitious work on a grand scale, a depiction of their house, a surprisingly accurate and detailed portrait of the Impala, and standing outside the house was a family: father, mother, small son, and holding the child's hand, and even smaller son. The streetscape was richly represented. John had to suppress a chuckle, and took a moment to compose himself and set his features in an expression of suitable fatherly disapproval. Congratulating the kid on getting the Impala down so accurately would probably result in Mary killing them both, blood on the carpet be damned.

He cleared his throat and pushed open the door to Dean's room.

"Hey, kiddo," he began, as his son lifted miserable eyes to him.

If he'd wanted to chuckle before, he wanted to howl with laughter now. Not satisfied with decorating the hallway, Dean had done quite a number on himself: garish blue eyeshadow, splodges of something in lurid red on his face, and dear God, what the hell had he found to use as green lipstick?

"Hello, Daddy," he said in a small, wavering voice.

"So, what have you been up to?" he asked, clearing his throat and biting the inside of his lip_. If Lucille Ball and Liberace had a child..._

"I found Mommy's crayons and paint," explained Dean, bottom lip wobbling, "And I drew her a picture, but she's mad at me..."

"Yeah, I saw," John said as sternly as he could. Mary's make-up, he'd gotten into Mary's make-up... "I think she's upset that you took her things without asking, and drew on the wall," explained John, sitting next to Dean. "And you drew on yourself, too, huh?"

The big green eyes swam, and tears spilled over. "I wanted to be pretty, like Mommy," quavered Dean, mascara running down his cheeks. "I didn't want to make her mad!"

John cleared his throat, biting down hard on the laughter that threatened. "Well, son," he began, "For a start, boys aren't 'pretty'. Girls are 'pretty', and boys are 'handsome'. Only girls use make-up to make themselves pretty. Boys don't need it. You can be handsome without make-up, because you don't need it. Understand?"

"Yes, Daddy," Dean nodded solemnly_. How the hell could he even see with all that crap around his eyes? _

"Now, you wouldn't like it if somebody took your colouring books and crayons without asking, would you?" Dean shook his head, breath hitching.

"Okay, so, from now on, no going into Mommy and Daddy's room, or touching any of Mommy or Daddy's things, without asking first, okay, Tiger?"

"Yes, Daddy," Dean nodded again.

"Good man. Now," John stood up, "Let's get you cleaned up, then we'll clean the picture off the wall and surprise Mommy with a clean face and a clean wall. That'll make her happy."

Dean looked up hopefully. "You think so?"

"Yeah, I think so," John smiled down at his firstborn, who gave him a wobbly smile back.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, kiddo?" replied John, shepherding Dean towards the bathroom.

"Mommy's really mad at me. You don't think..." he paused, and his eyes swam again, "You don't think... she won't give the baby back because I've been bad, will she?"

John made a strangled snorting noise. "No, Deano," he reassured his son, "Mommy won't take your baby brother or sister back, not for anything."

"Brother," said Dean with great conviction. "It's a boy Sam. Not a girl Samantha."

John surveyed the mural again, sighed, then set to cleaning Dean's face. "One of these days, Dean," he said, "One of these, when you grow up, I hope you end up with a kid who's just like you."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_Oconto Falls, Wisconsin, January 1996_

"Yeah... yeah... look, I appreciate you're upset, but..." John's hand clenched around the phone as the irate male voice on the other end of the line shouted obscenities at him. "All I'm saying is, well, it takes two to tango, so to speak..."

Sitting at the rickety kitchen table, Dean let out a small snort of laughter. John shot a death-ray glare at him, and he subsided.

"Yeah... oh, really? Is that so? And how old is this paragon of virtue that is your blushingly innocent daughter?" he asked sarcastically – the man's angry tone was starting to piss him off seriously. "So, she's a year older. Uhuh. Uhuh..."

Dean pantomimed sticking his finger down his throat. John glared at him again.

"Tell you what, you can have him when I'm done. If there's anything left... get in line, pal, by the time I'm finished with him he won't be able to sit down, let alone... oh, yeah? Frankly, I'd like to see you try. Yeah... look, why don't you call back after you've had a nice hot cup of calm the fuck down, okay?" John hung up the phone with a bang, and turned a murderously angry expression on Dean.

"So," he began, barely trusting his own voice, "I have spent the past decade drilling into you how important it is not to attract unwanted attention. And this is your idea of not attracting unwanted attention, is it?"

"Hey, Dad," smirked Dean, "I can't help it if my awesomeness attracts a certain _type_ of attention..."

Fantastic. Fan-fucking-tastic. The kid had decided to brazen it out.

"Right, right," nodded John, "So, explain to me, exactly how you define 'avoiding unwanted attention' as 'getting caught banging a police sergeant's daughter'? Because I gotta tell you, I'm really not understanding how this works."

"Hey, why am I getting handed my ass over this?" Dean asked angrily, "It's not like I forced myself on her! It was her idea!"

"Dean, you're fifteen years old!" shouted John.

"I'll be sixteen in a couple of weeks!" Dean shouted back, "And what does that have to do with it?"

John scrubbed a hand over his face. Dean was a good-looking boy, and he knew it. Sam had regarded girls as an uninteresting other species for a blessedly normal time. Dean had started practising his pick-up lines from the age of seven. He could imagine Mary scolding him for making their elder son grow up too soon – what do you expect? You push him to behave like an adult from such a young age, what the hell did you expect, that he was going to live a chaste and stainless life until such time as he could go live a 'normal' life, meet a nice girl, get married, and lose it on his honeymoon?

"Dean," he tried again, "It's just... God, you're a damned kid..."

"That's not how you think when I've got your back on a Hunt," his son shot back quietly.

"This is not the way I raised you," John told him.

"Yeah, you want me to live like a monk, just like you," Dean sneered in a shockingly lewd way, cocking an eyebrow at him.

John had a sudden urge to slap the smirk off his son's face. The kid missed nothing. When his father came home, stinking of booze and occasionally sex, he said nothing, but missed nothing.

"Jesus, Dean," John sat down heavily opposite the boy. It seemed like such a short time ago, he was a cute youngster, with a gap-toothed smile, and an endearing reluctance to be separated from his baby brother...

"Her father wants to make trouble," John said in a tired voice.

"He won't," Dean assured him, "He won't pursue it, because then he might end up asking questions he doesn't want to know the answers to. Like, how many there were before me."

John's eyebrows rose. "You weren't her first?"

"Shit, no! She taught me a thing or two..."

"Okaaaay, too much information right there, Ace," muttered John. "Please tell me," he sighed, "Please tell me I'm not going to have some irate cop coming after me with a shotgun, wanting you to do the right thing by his precious baby girl and marry her before a kid comes along?"

Dean looked at him with an expression that conveyed just how insulted he was by that suggestion. "Hey, I'm hot, and I'm horny, but I'm not stupid," he told his father heatedly. "I always use a rubber."

"_Always_?" echoed John incredulously, "You _always _use one? Just how long has it been since 'always' started?"

That cocky smirk was back. "Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to, Dad," he smiled, looking like the cat that got the cream.

Oh, fuck. This really took the cake. That urge to slap the expression right off his son's face was back with a vengeance, making his hand itch.

He came to a decision. "Go wake your brother," he sighed, "Tell him pack up your stuff. The job here is done. We're leaving."

Dean's face fell. "Sammy was looking forward to going back to school..."

"Well, maybe you'll think about that next time you can't keep your dick in your pants around a public official's daughter," growled John. "He could make trouble for us, Dean. CPS trouble."

"I'll pack our gear, Dad, let Sam sleep," began Dean, but John cut him off.

"Oh, no, you won't, because you won't be here." He pulled a tattered road map towards himself. "You got so much energy you gotta cat around, you can run some of it off." He pointed to the map. "Head south," he instructed. "We'll pick you up on the way. And if you haven't made enough progress, I'll drive further before I pull over and wait for you."

Dean looked like he was about to say something, but thought better of it.

"You're learning," John grunted. "Now, go get changed and get going. And when we stop next, you are grounded."

"For how long?" asked Dean, getting up and heading for the small room he shared with is brother.

"Until you're thirty-eight."

Dean paused in the doorway. "You haven't asked me if she was any good," he grinned.

John wished his eldest had two heads, so he could bang them together. "One day, Dean," he said tiredly, "One day, I hope you have a kid to deal with, and I hope he's just like you."

* * *

One day, I hope you write fanfics, and I hope you end up with crazy reviewers who keep encouraging you, just like you...


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Sam felt the chill in the room as soon as he walked in. Apparently he wasn't the only one who noticed the decidedly icy conditions: Jimi sat on his blanket in the corner, muzzle on his paws, Big Brown Eyes dialled all the way up to eleven on the Awwwwww-ometer. The dog whuffed slightly, and rolled his eyes briefly towards Dean. _Watch out, Second, _they told him_, Alpha is Not Happy with you._

"It looks like this isn't the first fugly-in-residence this town has had," he told Dean, who was sitting at the table with all his attention focused on cleaning his gun.

Sam put the laptop down. "Turns out there's a history of people going missing – not always at the full moon, though. Most, yes, but not all. Some disappear a day or two beforehand."

Dean put down his beer, and peered intently down the barrel. The expression on his face suggested that he found something down there quite offensive.

"Sometimes there's months or years when nothing happens, no corpses, no disappearances, no sightings..."

Dean frowned, and reached for the rod. _Yeah, something really, really offensive._

"A lot of the disappearances are people who you might think of as being, well, fringe-dwellers: drifters, junkies, runaways, boozers, the types that 'nice people' don't think about, and wouldn't miss. I don't have all the pieces yet, but the timing, the bodies that do turn up, this says 'werewolf' to me."

Dean poked a patch into the end of the rod, and dampened it with solvent.

"There seems to be a concerted effort to cause the minimum disturbance possible," Sam pressed on, "There's thought behind this."

Dean turned the barrel around, and began to clean it. _Utterly, totally offensive. Maybe as offensive as Sam's iPod playlistings._

"But I think we have to deal with something a bit more immediate first," Sam told him, "Apparently, there's a problem with this motel, right here."

The rod paused momentarily.

"Yeah," Sam warmed to his theme, "Apparently, this motel has been plagued by a Sulky Pants Monster, it's been going around biting guests, and nobody knows anything about it until someone suddenly starts OH GOD DEAN WHAT'S THAT MARK ON YOUR NECK NO NO OH GOD YOU'VE BEEN BITTEN!"

"Sam!" Dean slammed the rod down and glared at his brother, "Shut! Up! Bitch!"

Sam gasped in amazement. "He speaks!" he said in wonder, "Oh, God, for a moment there, I thought the Sulky Pants Monster might've bitten you, I guess it's only a hickey after all..."

"I'm not sulking!" Dean told him sulkily.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"You totally are."

"No, I'm not," repeated Dean grumpily, "Sulking is being sullen and resentful, with some implication of not having a good reason to be sullen and resentful. I, on the contrary, have a perfectly good and utterly legitimate reason to be sullen and resentful."

Sam sighed. "You cannot possibly be angry about that waitress at lunch?"

"I'M NOT ANGRY!" shouted Dean, banging a fist down on the table.

"Right, so, it's just the after effects of a Sulky Pants Monster bite then?"

"What you did was unforgiveable," growled Dean, "An unforgiveable, unacceptable and totally unwarranted breach of the Man-Code, the Brother Code, and the Out In Public With Living Sex God Dean Winchester Code."

"Dean..."

"I'm hurt, I'm angry, I'm offended, and I'm disappointed, Sam, bitterly disappointed. I'm your brother! I thought I raised you better than that."

"Dean..."

"You totally cockblocked me, bitch!"

"Oh, God," winced Sam, convinced he had a headache coming on, "I apologised already, I didn't set out to do it, and I really don't think I did anyway..."

"Did you see that ass?" asked Dean wistfully. "That ass! That was nearly a perfect ass! The only reason it couldn't be described as a perfect ass is because there is no such thing; the perfect ass exists only as a parable, an ideal to uplift and inspire. I could've bounced golf balls off that ass. I could've bounced baseballs off that ass..."

"I think we know which balls you really wanted to bounce against that ass," muttered Sam.

"And that could've been arranged, Sam, except you had to go and ruin everything!" Dean almost wailed. "One minute, I'm preparing to deploy the Killer Smile, the deal-clincher, and the next, you're making your evil juju and spoiling my entire evening!"

"Okay, hold it right there," demanded Sam. "You are always telling me that I'm the drama queen – you are blowing this out of all proportion. All I did was chat to Sarah..."

"Aha, so you're on first name terms with her?" enquired Dean icily.

"Of course I found out her name, it was on the tag on her uniform. In Arial font. No serifs, even you should be able to read that one..."

"You intellectual snob," sneered Dean.

"I chatted to Sarah," Sam glared at his brother, ignoring the slight, "About a post-grad Literature assignment she has due. Themes of cruelty and selfishness in Bronte's 'Wuthering Heights'. You heard every word!"

"Oh, yeah, cruelty and selfishness," Dean nodded knowingly, "Topics on which you are apparently a leading authority. That ass, Sam! That ass was one of Nature's perfect double handfuls! And the worst of it, the worst of it..."

"Yes, Dean?" Sam pressed, rolling his eyes.

"You didn't even get her number!" Dean burst out. "She was looking at you like she wanted to go all Mr Darcy on your Jane Eyre..."

"Mr Darcy was a character from a different book by a different author, jerk," Sam corrected, giving free rein to The Pedant Within, "And 'Jane Eyre' was written by Charlotte, not Emily, Bronte, and if any woman went 'Mr Darcy' on you, you'd fall asleep from boredom, the wake up and complain later that she attempted to, to, _polite_ you to death, then you'd decide that any woman who could resist the Living Sex God must be some sort of evil Abstention Demon, and start looking for ways to gank her because no, she couldn't possibly be a normal human being..." He gave Dean a look of unadulterated Bitchface #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?) and stuttered into silence in the face of his big brother's tantrum. "Anyway, she was going to be spending the evening working on that assignment, it's due in a couple of days," he continued, "So she wouldn't have been interested in either of us."

"Huh," grumped Dean, returning his attention to his gun, "College messes with people's heads, making them think of books instead of sex. Look what it did to you. I should sue Stanford." He sighed wistfully, then looked up with a small hopeful smile. "Hey, maybe if she hands her essay in, and we're still here, we can go back there. And you can be a good little brother, and study the menu while I study her ass, then you can make yourself scarce for the evening." He brightened up at that happy thought. "All right, baby brother, I will forgive you this time," he announced generously, "But you have to make it up to me."

"Forget it – I'm not letting you bounce your balls off my ass," deadpanned Sam, with a small smirk of satisfaction as his brother choked on a mouthful of beer.

"If I didn't know you, I'd hunt you," Dean spluttered. "So, a werewolf. Been hanging around for years. Possibly hunting smarter, not harder. Got a theory on where, yet?"

"Not yet," replied Sam, rifling through his bag for one of Bobby's books, "I came back to get this. I want to go look up a couple of coroner's reports. The wifi at the library is really good. I'll be back for dinner. We can always try a different place, one where the waitresses don't have such heavy academic loads."

"That's a good idea, Sammy," agreed Dean, apparently mollified. "Your Upstairs Brain is good for something, at least." He returned his attention to cleaning his gun.

"Never mind, Dean," sympathised Sam, "You'll always have your gun cleaning kit. In... out... in... out... in... out... " he dodged the cushion Dean hurled at him with a parting shout of 'Bitch!" and headed back to the library.

He was only gone about ten minutes when he suddenly marched back in the door, and without a word, smilingly deposited a drugstore bag in front of his big brother, then left just as swiftly as he'd come back.

Confused, Dean read the message Sam had written on the bag.

_Dearest and Only Big Brother,_

_Please accept my apologies for allegedly cockblocking, and find herewith my sincere effort to make it up to you. Mea maxima culpa._

_Humblest atonement from your adoring and devoted baby bro, Sam._

Dean upended the bag.

Out fell a bottle of sorbolene lotion, a small box of tissues, and a travel pack of wet wipes.

The motel manager later received several reports of a male voice shrieking "BIIIIIIIIIITCH!" into the afternoon air, but was not able to ascertain who the culprit was.

_Jimi watched the exchange between his Alpha and his Second, letting the reassuring interaction wash over him. _

_He'd commiserated with his Alpha when the Pack had returned to den after feeding – he was familiar with the posture, the attitude, the scent that indicated a thwarted mating. It didn't happen to his Alpha often, but when it did... His Second had commiserated too, genuinely, Jimi thought, but the Alpha remained in a sulk. After that, his Second had gone ranging, probably casting for the Hunt, and he'd taken his favourite toy to his Alpha, offering distraction and play. That had pleased his Alpha – his mood had lifted, and they'd rassled, and even gone for a walk. They had procured prey, the cooked chicken wings that Jimi loved so much, and he had basked in his Alpha's attention and approval._

_The senior members of his Pack constantly bickered like the littermates they were – it sometimes struck him as odd that they still did this as adults. Certainly, his Dam had not tolerated that sort of behaviour after her pups reached a certain age. Maybe they lost their Dam too early, before they were ready to leave her den... but the affection under the squabbles was unmistakeable._

_The Second left again, then returned, then left – he often did things that Jimi didn't understand, but accepted without question. This time, he'd set an ambush for their Alpha – the outraged barking indicated that._

_He got up with his toy again, soliciting play._

Dean felt the warm chin land on his knee, and looked down at the big, square head looking up at him with dancing eyes, whuffing gently around his squeaky pig toy, and couldn't help but smile. Jimi was growing up, had most of his adult height – when he filled out, he was going to be an imposing, magnificent specimen.

"Just like me, hey?" he said to the dog, patting his head. "Tell you what, let me finish here, then we'll make Oinker Stoinker wish he'd never been manufactured, okay?"

Jimi settled patiently to wait, as Dean walked back to the door, and stuck his head out.

"AND I DO KNOW WHAT A SERIF IS, SMARTASS!"

* * *

Reviews are the serifs on the Font Of Life. Or the crispy batter on the Chicken Wings Of Life.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Dean was poring over a map of the area around Devil's Lake while Sam shuffled post-it notes, pecked at the laptop, glared at the keyboard and humphed.

"It doesn't all quite fit," he announced despairingly, "It's almost, but not quite, werewolf. No attacks for months or years, then recently, disappearances several full moons in a row, corpses turning up with hearts missing, but not always. Then there's the reported sightings of a large dog. A decidedly canine-looking dog. a Mastiff maybe. One guy called it 'Like what you'd get if you crossed a German Shepherd with a Shetland pony with Arnold Schwarzenegger'..."

Dean looked up. "Wow," he commented, "That'd be an awesome threesome."

"...But 'feral dog pack' doesn't fit, either," finished Sam, giving Dean a shot of Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often.)

"The attacks have been over a wide area," added Dean, "Right around the lake, and a couple of wildlife refuges to the north. And a nature reserve – it's a werewolf that likes fishing, maybe?"

"It's the first night of the full moon tomorrow, so we gotta figure this out before then," mused Sam. "I'm calling Bobby. He's got half a shelf of books on lycanthropic fuglies..." he glared at his collection of post-its again, and tapped at the laptop.

"I thought you were calling Bobby," said Dean.

"I am," replied Sam. "I'm Skyping him."

Dean looked worried. "Skyping?" he repeated. "Skyping? What the hell is 'skyping'? It doesn't sound like something normal men do, Sam."

"Don't be such a Luddite, Dean," humphed Sam, with a shot of Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk.)

"I'll have you know I've never ludded in my entire life," declared Dean a bit sniffily. "I like to think that I'm a broad-minded man who enjoys the intimate company of broad-minded women, but it sounds just as bad as skyping, which, I repeat, certainly doesn't sound like something you should be doing with a man who's practically a father to us."

"I suppose it's only fair that I be punished for my sins in this life, all things considered..." muttered Sam.

"It sounds like something that even informed mutually consenting adults with broad minds should be wary of," stated Dean primly.

"...but being sentenced to Life EnDeanment, I mean, really? Have I really been that evil?" Sam pleaded with the universe.

"Is it even legal in North Dakota?" asked Dean suspiciously, "They're largely Lutherans, up here..."

The connection established, and Bobby's face pulled into focus.

Dean stared at the screen. "Bobby?" he said, turning to his brother, "Is he on YouTube?"

"Of course not, ya idjit," Bobby rolled his eyes, "I'm in front of the computer. Hey, Sam," he started, then looked aside with a confused expression. "What's wrong with your brother?"

"I think the sudden deceleration after being dragged into the 21st century might have affected his brain," confided Sam.

Dean was still staring. "Hey, how can he see us? That's creepy." He waved a hand in front of the screen.

There's a webcam at the top of the screen. There." Sam pointed to the tiny glass spot.

"So, Sam, what can I do foraaaAAARGH!" Bobby let out a yelp as Dean peered closely at the webcam dot. "Jesus, boy, if I want to see the pimples up your nose, I'll let you know! Don't do that to a body!"

Sam pushed Dean out of the way and explained what he'd found to Bobby. "I need to pick your brain, Bobby," he said, "It doesn't all quite hang together for a werewolf, but I don't know what else it could be."

Bobby looked thoughtful. Finally, he spoke. "It doesn't hang together for a werewolf," he agreed, "Unless you're up against one from the old country."

"What do you mean,' the old country'?" queried Dean.

"Think if it as lingering cultural influences," continued Bobby. "North Dakota has a high proportion of people who are descendants of migrants from the Old North, Germanic and Scandinavian peoples," Bobby explained. "The werewolf has been a part of the folk tradition of those areas of the world for thousands of years, with good reason."

"So, I'm guessing that 'lingering cultural influences' doesn't mean that the fugly has a tendency to wear scarves on its head, practise strange folk dancing while wearing leather shorts, embarrass its pups by speaking its native tongue loudly in public and sending them to language school on Saturday mornings," said Dean.

"You're on the right track," Bobby told them, "They bred 'em big in the Old North. We're talking the six-foot-plus, goes on four legs or two, built like a brick shithouse, opposable thumbs hairy-assed humanoid lycanthrope. That geographical region produced a 'master race' long before some greasy-haired fascist midget with a toothbrush moustache tried it."

"That might explain the sightings," allowed Sam, "But how do the not-quite-werewolf bits fit with this?"

"Ah, this is where it gets interesting," said Bobby, in the same understated way that a physicist with Asperger's syndrome might point out a bank of flashing red lights and screaming klaxon alarms going off in the control room of a nuclear power plant going into meltdown and say, 'Watch this; this is where it gets interesting'. "Old breed werewolves are still bound to the full moon, but as they age, they can develop a certain limited... self-awareness. They can retain some basic cognitive function."

"How much is 'basic' cognitive function?" asked Sam, in the wary tone of a visitor asking the physicist with Asperger's syndrome 'So, this fireball, which will be large enough to vaporise all manmade structures and fuse the underlying ground into glass for several thousand square miles, exactly how hot will it get right here at ground zero?'.

"Enough to think before it acts," answered Bobby grimly, "Enough to plan an attack, lay an ambush, possibly even consider covering its tracks or avoiding detection."

"Fight smarter, not harder," put in Dean gloomily.

"Pretty much," added Bobby, nodding. "Depending on the age of the wolf, it may also turn on four days of the lunar month, if there's enough moonlight, depending on the moon's position in the ecliptic."

"All you have to do is tell me that it shoots death lasers out its eyes, farts nerve gas, and campaigns against pornography on its days off, and you've made my day," grumbled Dean, "So, how to we kill it?"

"Same way you kill any werewolf, but more carefully," Bobby told him. "Where's Jimi?"

Jimi had been sitting by Dean, cocking his head and listening attentively from the moment he heard the sound of his Dam's Alpha's voice. On hearing his name, he jumped up, put his feet in Dean's lap (provoking a startled yelp of "Hey, mind the merchandise!") and stared at the laptop, looking for the voice.

"He's right here, compromising Dean's capacity to father children," smiled Sam, as Jimi cocked his head in confusion.

"Wow, he's grown," breathed Bobby.

"He's a hundred and twenty-five, and Dr Wooley says he's not finished yet," Sam added.

Jimi whined, left to retrieve his squeaky pig toy, and returned to stare at the laptop again, provoking another anguished squawk from Dean.

"Aaaaaaah, bad touch! Bad touch!" trilled the elder Winchester, gingerly repositioning the dog's paws.

"You'd best leave him out of this one," Bobby told them firmly, "He's gonna be a fine animal when he's grown up, but he'd best sit this one out."

"Hey, he can handle himself on a Hunt," Dean defended loyally, "He's strong, he's game, nothing scares him… as long as there's no thunderstorm activity, anyway…"

"…And his body, and more importantly _brain_, are still growing up," answered Bobby, frowning. "He's still a teenager – pushing boundaries, acting impulsively, and still learning the focus he'll need as an adult."

"I was covering my Dad's ass on Hunts when I was a teenager," countered Dean. Jimi didn't help his case by squeaking enthusiastically at his blue pig toy.

"Your Daddy, utter idjit and miserable excuse for a father that he was, would never have taken you after one of these," Bobby said sternly. "There'll be plenty of time for him to Hunt the Big Bads with you when he's got his full weight, and his mind is matured. You just let him become an adult before you expect him to behave like one."

"Bobby's probably right, Dean," Sam ventured, "You have to admit, Jimi does get a bit, well, excited sometimes."

"He's just… enthusiastic about his working life," Dean muttered.

"Which is good," Sam agreed quickly, "But it's not always the most, er, efficient and unobtrusive way to take care of business. Like, that witch in Illinois? Cursing the food in that steakhouse? Making the house specialty grills explode on customers' plates?""

"He did a marvellous job!" declared Dean, "He defused the entire stock of cursed steaks while we dealt with the witch!"

"Dean, he didn't so much 'defuse' the cursed steaks as subjected them to 'contained detonation' – he ate the lot," corrected Sam, "We can only be thankful that apparently, a half-hellhound's stomach is made of the same stuff as his balls. You were the one who complained bitterly about the smell in the Impala for a week – you know what steak does to his digestion, pure ylangylang. And what about that revenant in Kentucky?"

"Jimi helped us gank him," stated Dean.

"Yeah. First of all, Jimi helped him dig himself all the way out, _then_ he helped us gank him," finished Sam.

"He buried him again afterwards!" said Dean hotly.

"Yes, but not back in his grave, Dean…"

"What about that Leshii he picked?" demanded Dean, "We'd never have spotted it!"

"Dude, it made itself look like Rin Tin Tin, and Jimi humped it!"

"He distracted it long enough for us to identify it and deal with it," Dean asserted, "Just like he did with that demon in Minneapolis!"

"Oh, yeah," nodded Sam, "Fortunately, he only pantsed four people in the process, including a police officer."

"Three people, and one demon," snapped Dean.

"The thing is," cut in Bobby, "If you are after ye olde worlde werewolf, there won't be room for Jimi's youthful hijinks. These things are big, fast, and deadly. You'll have your hands full worrying about each other without having to keep an eye out for himself. Give him another six months, and he'll be up for it, but not yet."

"The attacks have been happening every full moon for several months," said Sam, "Some of the people here can't wait six months for the dog to finish growing up. He has to stay in the car, Dean."

"Yeah, you're probably right," sighed Dean, pushing the dog off his lap, and ruffling his ears. "I mean, if this thing happens to be a female, we don't want him getting in the way, trying to get better acquainted."

"There's that too," agreed Bobby. "Don't mess around with this thing. Plug it with silver, and get out. You idjits be careful."

"Yes, Bobby," they chorused as the connection ended.

"We'll have to go trolling tonight," Sam mused, "Some attacks have been on the night before the three days of the full moon…"

"We head for the north-east bit of the lake," Dean said, reaching for the map, "The attacks have kind of drifted in that direction over the past months."

"So, how do we go fishing for a werewolf?" asked Sam.

"Easy," smiled Dean, "I just go fishing."

* * *

Thank you, dear, incorrigible reviewers, for your feedback. If there's no chocolate available, fanfic reviews are a pretty good substitute (and considerably less fattening). I hope you know, every time you leave a review, a hellhound pantses a demon. In a public place. In a really embarrassing fashion.

I learned that Yanks call it 'pantsing' from 'The Big Bang Theory' (Downunder, we call it 'dacking'). That show is very educational, but I'm getting sick of people telling me "You know you're Sheldon, right?"


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Dean meant what he said. That evening, he sat on the shore of the lake with a rod, tackle box, icebox and ridiculous hat decorated with fishing paraphernalia, while Sam told him exactly how he felt about his big brother using himself as bait.

"Come on, who's going to believe you're fishing out here at this hour?" he asked.

"Anybody who sees this hat," answered Dean, baiting his hook, "Because wearing a hat this stupid, it's a universal sign for 'Do Not Disturb: Man Fishing'."

"Why are you the one who gets to decide to dangle himself as bait, Dean?" grumped Sam.

"Big brother's prerogative. Besides, I'm the one who's utterly irresistable," Dean smirked, batting his eyelashes. "And you don't like fishing. Anyway, if Fido is out on the prowl, he won't see me 'fishing', he'll see 'single human prey item in isolated area'." He breaks cover, we gank him. Easy."

"Yeah, easy," repeated Sam dubiously (the way that nuclear plant visitor might answer after the physicist says 'Look, in order to survive, all we have to do is dig a bunker, several miles deep, line it with metres of concrete and steel reinforcement, and connect a breathable air supply, all in the next few minutes before detonation'). "And it's my job to leap out of the bushes at the dramatic juncture in the narrative, and kill the damned thing before it actually tears you to pieces?"

"Exactly!" smiled Dean, casting his line. "If we're lucky, we might even have bass for breakfast. So don't just stand there, Francis, put Jimi in the car, and go find a bush to hide in. Actually, you'll probably need something bigger, at least 'shrub' or larger. Try not to rustle or pollinate suspiciously, or do anything a shrub wouldn't do after hours."

Jimi whined a little, and put a paw on Dean's knee – _I don't like this, Alpha, be careful _– then followed Sam back to the Impala. He turned the Big Brown Eyes on Sam, and settled mournfully on the back seat, chewing disconsolately at his pig toy.

"You should know better than to try Sammy Eyes on me," Sam laughed, patting him, "Now, you Stay. Stay in the car. Good boy." He left to take up his position behind a convenient tree, and scanned the surrounding woodland while his big brother 'fished'.

It might actually have been peaceful, thought Dean, sitting and fishing under a practically-full moon, if he wasn't also sitting and waiting for some giant supernatural monster to try to sneak up on him, tear him limb from limb and snack on his heart. He ignored a couple of bites on his line, not having the attention to spare to deal with landing a fish, and concentrated on paying attention to what the hair on the back of his neck was telling him.

_Jimi was not happy. He didn't like being left behind when his Pack Hunted. He wasn't afraid to be alone – the Den was the safest place he knew, short of his Dam's Alpha's den – but he was almost grown, and he wanted to take his Place in the Pack. They hardly ever left him in the Den now, like they did when he was a pup, but sometimes he was told to STAY, and that meant no Crossing, staying put, and waiting for the Pack to return._

_He whined a little to himself. He could smell something bad in this place. The woods stunk of it. His Alpha's posture anticipated it. He knew what that meant: his Alpha would Hunt with half his attention on the fight, and half on his Second. A pack had to watch for each other while hunting, but sometimes his Alpha had no regard for his own safety… Jimi wondered if he had ever sired any pups that survived: surely inheriting that utter disregard for your own welfare would be a fatal flaw in any animal?_

_He shook his head, humphed, and dropped his muzzle to his paws. He might not be Hunting, but he was going to play his role in this Hunt, by being a well-behaved junior member of his Pack and doing what he was told, and staying out of the way. That always earned him praise and approval. He lay quietly, idly monitoring the sounds and smells of the night. _

_A sudden gust of wind brought the scent of rain, damp earth, and... wrong._

_He sat up, alert, and put his nose to the gap in the window. Wrong, wrong, wrong, something wrong was out there. Headed for his Pack._

_He'd barely had time to register that, when another impression arrived._

_Anger. Surprise. Rage. Hunger. And... no, no, no, he was sure they weren't expecting that!_

_Something red and hot bubbled in Jimi's mind, whispering, urging. Your Pack is attacked._

_Protect your Hunters._

_Anger. Surprise. Rage. Hunger. Blood. _

_His Alpha's blood._

His eyes crackling the angry red of hot coals, Jimi backed up, then bolted through the door of the Impala, heading for the lake faster than an ordinary dog should be able to move.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

They didn't have to wait nearly as long as either of them had feared – well before midnight, it came out of the trees, as quietly as mist. No snarling or slavering, just headed straight for Dean at superhuman speed. He barely had time to react to the horrified warning Sam yelled.

It was no taller than Dean, but every bit as horrific as what Bobby had described. With a single backhanded swipe it sent Dean flying across the sand, then dropped to its haunches for the final pounce and kill. The separation gave Sam time to get a couple of shots off, but as soon as it saw him, it was taking evasive action, moving impossibly fucking _fast_, how the hell was he supposed to draw a bead on_ that_, then it was on Dean, and he'd lost his gun...

As the beast dropped its head for the killing bite, Dean shoved the stupid fishing hat into its mouth. It bit down on a hatful of lures, hooks and assorted pointy things. It dropped back, a look of almost comical surprise on its face, and let out a howl of pain. Sam took the opportunity to put two more shots into it, but it was moving again, and Dean was yelling something, and he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and...

Fuck, there wasn't supposed to be _two_ of them!

The second werewolf was larger. Much larger. And _angry_. Seven feet walking upright, and not seeming much smaller as it dropped to all fours, snarling viciously to display canine fangs at least three inches long, it began a purposeful high-speed rush at Sam. He brought his gun up, but the thing was practically on top of him...

A black bullet, moving too fast to see properly, cannoned into the larger werewolf, knocking it off-course and causing it to let out an audible 'oof!' It rolled upright, shook itself, and searched out this new enemy.

Jimi didn't waste time with snarling or barking – this was not going to be settled by threat display. His momentum had carried him over the werewolf. He didn't slow down, circling back, teeth bared. He dodged the swipes of its clawed hands, and darted in to bite at its legs.

The wolf roared, and swiped again, but Jimi was gone, circling back again, a black streak with savage red eyes. He charged in for another hamstringing bite.

Seeing the smaller werewolf head for the treeline, Sam ran to where Dean was picking himself up.

"Where the fuck did that big bastard come from?" he asked, hauling Dean the rest of the way to his feet.

"Dunno, must've been watching Junior's back," his big brother replied. "Fuck me, these things are fast... what the hell is he doing?" he yelled, catching sight of Jimi. "Jimi! JIMI! Get the hell away from that thing!"

The werewolf snarled in frustration – it couldn't drop its attention from the dog that was trying to hamstring it, but Jimi was too quick to swipe: the razorlike claws swished through empty air again, as Jimi took another bite behind its hock, this time eliciting an angry yowl of pain.

The thing narrowed its eyes, calculating, and with Jimi's next rush, it suddenly dropped to all fours, and clamped its jaws onto his leg.

With a snarl that rivalled the werewolf's, Jimi twisted, and sank his teeth into its throat.

The werewolf let go, and howled, standing upright, but Jimi hung on, growling determinedly, biting harder into the thing's throat. It heaved, and thrashed, but Jimi clung to it, gripping tighter.

"Come on!" yelled Dean, scrabbling for his dropped gun, "Time this right!"

The werewolf was shaking itself, trying to dislodge the dog. Blood flew, and Jimi dug in harder. It's struggles were becoming weaker. On the next upswing, the Winchesters put several more shots into the massive body. It howled again, more plaintive this time, and dropped back to the ground, gasping for breath.

Jimi didn't let go until it had collapsed to the shore, sides heaving, and Dean ordered him back so he could put two shots in its head and two in its heart. In death, the monster reverted to human form, a well-built middle-aged man with hair just starting to grey.

Sam let out the breath he'd been holding. "Fuck me," he sighed, "Just... fuck me."

"Where's the other one?" asked Dean, scanning the treeline, "I'm pretty sure you winged it."

"Looks like it's gone," replied Sam, "Gone to ground. Damn."

"We'll have to come back for it," said Dean, sounding unhappy about the prospect.

"Right now, what we need to do is get you cleaned up," he indicated the claw marks gouging through Dean's shirt, "And check on Jimi. Come here, fella, let's have a look at you."

"Guess he didn't want to stay in the car," grinned Dean, scratching Jimi's ears, "It's lucky for us you didn't, isn't it? Yes it is! Yes it is!" Jimi grinned doggily at him, basking in the attention, while Sam checked his leg.

"It's hard to say – there's so much blood on him, I don't know what's his and what's Mr Fugly's," he pronounced, "We'll have to get him – and you – cleaned up to survery the damage."

"Look at that," grumped Dean, hissing as his own injuries stung when he moved, "He's not even limping. And this shirt was clean on this morning. Fishing is supposed to be relaxing. Come on, we got us a werewolf to dispose of."

"I've got a werewolf to dispose of," corrected Sam, "You're in no condition to dig. You keep watch – that other one is still out there."

"Sam," began Dean, "I'm fine, it's just superficial..."

"Argh!" barked Sam. "No arguments!"

"Don't do that!" demanded Dean.

"Don't do what?" asked Sam.

"That 'Argh!' noise thing," Dean specified, "That's the 'Argh!' noise you make when you catch Jimi doing something he shouldn't. That's your dominant-dog-correction noise. Don't make it at me, BABY brother."

"Well, stop acting like a puppy who needs to be taught how to behave, and I'll stop treating you like one," smiled Sam.

"Grrrrrrrrr," went Dean.

"Do what you're told, or I'll lock you in the car with Jimi." Sam grimaced as a sprinkling of rain fell. "Come on, let's do this before we get drowned."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean insisted that Jimi's injury be dealt with first when they emerged from the bathroom, Jimi wearing the mournfully martyred expression of dogs in every universe, plane of existence and theoretical altertative reality after they have been required to take a bath.

"How does it look?" asked Sam. Jimi squeaked his pig toy in an unconcerned fashion.

"I think we're both shaken but not stirred," answered Dean, "But if you absolutely insist on mother-henning us tomorrow, you can do it in a useful fashion, and bring pie."

"Cluck frigging cluck," muttered Sam, opening the first aid kit, "Those gashes need cleaning. Sit."

"Woof. Do I get a treat now?" snarked Dean, dropping into a chair.

"No, but if you don't behave, I'll smack you with a rolled-up newspaper."

"Ooooooh," purred Dean lewdly, "Mr Vanilla has a kink! Who knew?"

"Dean…"

"You've got the height to carry it off, too. Master Samuel, currently in session."

"Dean…"

"I'm not judging, Sam, in fact, if it gets you laid, I'm all for it. All you need is some leather pants OW!" The sting of disinfectant on one of the gashes across his torso made Dean jump. "Hey, I'm not one of your paying clients, knock it off!"

"For you Dean," smirked Sam, "I'm happy to do it for free."

"Although there was this one girl in Nevada, Sherry, her name was, yeah, and her working name was Mistress Alexandra, and she had the most amazing set-up in her back room, and…"

"Okay, I'll get the stitches done now," said Sam, giving his brother a shot of Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk).

"… the bed had all these… what?" Dean's train of thought derailed, jumping the points at the junction between the Libido Line and Sam Central. "These don't need stitches."

"Not those gashes Dean – I'm going to sew your mouth shut."

"Jealous bitch."

"Kinky jerk."

Jimi was already settled on his blanket when the Winchesters made ready for bed.

"We'll have to come up with another plan tomorrow, find that other one," remarked Dean. "The rain's getting heavier," he added.

"We'll have to see if it goes to ground. At any rate, it knows it's being hunted, damn it." Sam checked the laptop before shutting it down. "Looks like there's some thunderstorm activity headed this way," he told his brother, "So if you wake up with a frightened furry extra guest in your bed, don't be surprised."

"Stay out of my bed, Sammy, no matter how scared you get," Dean instructed. Sam flipped him off.

The first distant rumble of thunder sounded, and Jimi picked up his head, ears dropped, eyes large and anxious as he whined a little. Dean smiled at him.

"Hey, you took down an old-school werewolf, how can you be scared of thunder?" he said. Jimi cranked the Sammy Eyes up another notch. Dean could never resist those. "Oh, all right," he relented, "Come on."

Jimi slunk across the room and jumped onto Dean's bed, curling into a tight ball and tucking his nose under his tail. Dean knew that if the thunderstorm got closer, Jimi would hide under the covers. "If it gets any worse, just don't set the sheets on fire, okay?" he whispered, patting the dog's head reassuringly. Jimi let out a contented huff.

The rain beat a steady, soporific tattoo against the windows, and the Winchester Pack were soon asleep.

Sam was right, though. A short time later, the storm passed much closer to the motel, and Jimi yelped and shot under the bedclothes. There was a snort of laughter from Sam's bed. Dean barely stirred, offered the dog a reassuring pat, and went back to sleep.

_Jimi settled quickly. No matter how scary the noises of the storm were, he always felt better when he denned with his Alpha. His Alpha's warm, solid presence made him feel safe and protected, and he would always comfort him when the noises became too scary. He curled against him, letting out a relieved whuff. His leg was a little bit sore after his fight with the Wolf – he'd Hunted it with his Pack, just like an adult! – but the approval and adoration of his Pack more than compensated for it. He leaned in close to his Alpha, and slept contentedly._

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean dreamed of thunderstorms from a long time ago:

…_Rain and wind beating against cheap glass and thin walls, draughts finding ways in through neglected cracks, loud thunder crashing overhead, a pair of frightened eyes appearing at his bedside – Sammy eyes. Sam, so much smaller, so scared of the lightshow, and the noise that rattled the tiles. He pulled back the covers, let his brother into his bed, felt the smaller figure clutch at his shirt anxiously. He felt the smaller body shake with fear, and put his arm around it, muttering soothing shushings and stroking shaggy hair until the shaking stopped, and the small form went back to sleep, the noise no longer frightening, but now a steady, calming patter against the windows… The sound and the warmth were restful; he curled contentedly against his brother, and slept…_

The rain had mostly cleared when he woke, grey tendrils of reluctant daylight pushing through the thin curtains. He yawned and stretched, wincing a little at the pull from the gashes across his ribs, and looked down at the lump in the bed beside him. He grinned to himself: poor Jimi. Half-hellhound and half Rottie, heading for a hundred and fifty pounds, taker-down and choker-out of werewolves on steroids, and afraid of storms. He wondered if other dogs would tease him about it. Probably not, he decided: Jimi was the sort of dog who got on well with other dogs – he made friends easily and could solicit play with anything else canine, from Mastiffs twice his size to yappy Pomeranians he could eat without chewing.

It wasn't until the lump under the covers stirred that Dean's hindbrain told him that something was… off.

"Hey, J-Man," he said, "Time to rise and shine, polish up our awesomeness and dazzle the world anew."

The lump squirmed briefly.

"Come on," Dean prompted, "Storm's gone, time to man up – or dog up – and get out of the people bed."

The lump twitched, and…

Something felt… wrong.

Dean's brain said something that couldn't be rendered easily, but might be represented as _eio80q3*6iaery$iowdf2klfklgahas'kln&__**WTF?**_

His eyes rolled downwards.

He let out a shriek of bewilderment as… something touched him.

_Touched_ him.

At the sound of his shriek, the lump under the covers jerked, and a very human hand appeared.

It was followed by a very human head, with an expression as confused as Dean's.

Dean let out another shriek of confusion, bewilderment and **OMGsrsly**_**WTF?**_

"Dean!" Sam was out of his own bed, gun in hand, staring with gaping mouth and bugging eyes at the scene in front of him.

"Guuuuuaaaaaaar?" he went.

It was not unusual for Dean to wake up with a stark naked somebody in his bed.

It _was_ unusual for the stark naked somebody to be male, a teenager by the look of it, and… was the kid wearing a _collar_?

There was a moment of stunned silence as the three of them held still, waiting for the universe to stop pissing about and snap reality back into focus.

Then the naked kid in Dean's bed tentatively raised a hand, and put it on Dean's shoulder, speaking just one word in a confused tone.

"…Alpha?"


	5. Chapter 4

Stop it! Stop it! Stop it with the plot bunnies! Those evil little mongrels are more persistent than herpes. They're harder to ignore than a younger sibling with a new electronic toy. They feel no pity, no remorse, and they absolutely will not stop until you write the story! STOP IT! I don't have much time for writing the one I have on the go as it is, and it's going to annoy me until it's finished... please, Death, come and put up a wall, I promise not to scratch at it...

* * *

**Chapter 4**

If you described the next sixty seconds in Sammish, you'd say: Dean had something akin to a panic attack, from the look of it.

If you described the next sixty seconds in Deanese, you'd say: Dean screamed like a little bitch. I mean, hey, naked – guy – in – the – BED!

If you described the next sixty seconds in Bobbyan, you'd say: That idjit made a noise like a gay weasel having its tail pulled. The kid aint got anything he hasn't seen before.

If you described the next sixty seconds in Castielsh, you'd say: Dean was extremely confused and disturbed when he awoke and discovered a naked subadult male human in his bed – he does not appreciate such intrusions into his Personal Space. In his confusion, he let out an involuntary vocalisation of surprise and alarm; it was loud, sustained, and quite high pitched, considering the levels of testosterone normally circulating in Dean's blood, which may go some of the way to explaining his preoccupation with fornication. However, Dean does not, as far as I am aware, fornicate with men – although since he has insisted that I do not attempt to observe him in any way during… Special Cuddles, I cannot say that with the absolute certainty of totally accurate observation, but given his heterosexual inclinations and barely concealed homophobia I think it highly unlikely – and the proximity of another naked male body added considerably to his discomfiture.

Let's go with that last one.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean was extremely confused and disturbed when he awoke and discovered a naked subadult male human in his bed.

The naked subadult make was apparently also extremely confused.

The shrieking yodel of utter WTF that Dean let out was long and loud, the sustainment and pitch of a quality that would make the singer with a Hair Metal band hand back his microphone and leopard skin tights.

"Guuuuuaaaaaar," went Sam again, lowering his gun.

"AAAAAAAARGH!" Dean's brain might've continued screaming inarticulately on the inside, but his lungs were made of more sensible stuff, and made him pause to breathe. "SAAAAAAAAAAAM!" He yelled. "SAAAAAAAAAAM! NAKED! GUY! KID!"

"Uuuuuh, yeah," agreed Sam, feeling the gibbering rising. "Insofar as you have articulated your observation, I concur, there is indeed a, um, naked guy kid in your bed. Er."

"SAAAAAAAAAAAAM!" Dean howled, jumping backwards, "HE TOUCHED MEEEEEE! NAKED GUY KID TOUCHED MEEEEEEE!"

During this exchange, Naked Guy Kid sat looking from one brother to the other, an expression of good-natured confusion on his face. "Alpha?" he said again, looking back to Dean. "Alpha?"

Sam's jaw dropped even further. "_Jimi?_" He breathed incredulously.

Naked Guy Kid's face broke into a huge grin, and he bounded out of the bed, grabbing Sam in an enthusiastic hug. "Second!" he chirped happily.

"NAAAAAAAAAH!" Dean's eyes bugged again. "SAAAAAAAM, NAKED GUY KID HUG! NAKED! HUG! NAKED! GUY KID HUG NAKED!"

"OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod," rambled Sam, not knowing where to put his hands, but settling for gingerly returning Naked Guy Kid's hug. "He got bitten, Dean, he got bitten!"

"NAKED! NAKED GUY KID NAKED HUG, SAAAAAAAAM! WHAT?" Dean's brain was clearly having trouble getting past the 'naked' bit, let alone following Sam's train of thought regarding the sudden appearance of Guy Kid.

"SHUT UP DEAN!" Sam shouted back, "IT'S JIMI YOU SCREAMING FUCKTARD!"

"NAKED, SAM, NAKED, NAKED HUG, GUY KID NAKED…. JIMI?" Somewhere in Dean's mind, a circuitbreaker tripped, and he sat, blinking, looking at the teen hugging his brother. "Jimi?" he said again, more quietly, looking around the room and noticing that there was no sign of the dog, "That's….. Jimi?"

"Does this look familiar?" asked Sam, indicating the collar that Naked Guy Kid – Jimi – was wearing. "It's Jimi's. It's his. This is Jimi."

"Jimi?" said Dean again, like a demented recording, "That's Jimi?"

"Alpha!" cried Jimi, happy at being recognised. He let go of Sam, and flung himself back onto the bed. He caught Dean in a hug and gave him a big sloppy kiss. "Alpha! It's Jimi!"

"SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM! NAKED HUUUUUUUG!" shrieked Dean again.

"Jimi. leave Dean alone, come on," called Sam. Jimi gave Dean another kiss for good measure, and bounded over to Sam, where he stood, doing something… wiggly.

"Second!" he said, grinning.

"Oh my God," moaned Dean, "Oh my God, he's waggling his ass at me, Sam, he's waggling his ass at me!"

"No he's not," Sam replied, figuring out the strange dance, "He's wagging his tail at you. At us, really. At everything. He's just happy."

"Yeah, well, I'm happy to see you too, but I'm not shaking my ass at you…" continued Dean.

"That's because you're not a dog," Sam explained. "Jimi is."

"Okay, okay," muttered Dean, "So, that's Jimi, who's a dog, except for right now, he's not a dog?"

"Yeah," concluded Sam. "That werewolf bite last night? It must've been deeper than we thought." He took Jimi's left arm, and examined the ugly bruised mark there – it was clearly teethmarks. "It's done something to him, flipped his, his, his personal shape settings… human gets bitten, turns canine on the full moon, half-hellhound canine gets bitten, apparently turns into human. Um."

Jimi looked down at his body, as if only just noticing something was different. "Taller," he commented, looking up at Sam. "I look like you, Second."

"He can talk?" said Dean in a dazed voice.

"Apparently so," replied Sam, regarding Jimi thoughtfully, "Although, really, if you want to be pedantic about it, I think he looks more like you. A lot more like you. Creepily like you, as a teenager, actually. If you were that age again, he'd pass for you in a pinch, or maybe a fraternal twin."

Trying to look without looking because, ahem, NAKED GUY KID, Dean studied Jimi. Sam was right: he looked astonishingly like Dean had around the age of sixteen, except his hair was a bit darker, and his eyes were a deep chocolate brown. "He's got your boyish good looks," Sam added.

"Yeah, but he's got his Mommy and Daddy's eyes," Dean decided.

"Alpha," Jimi turned back to him, "Why am I an Upright?"

"An Upright?" echoed Dean, bemused.

"I think he wants to know why he's woken up as a human," Sam suggested. "Jimi, we think this is because you were bitten by the werewolf, last night. Do you remember that? Do you remember what happened, after I took you back to the car?"

Jimi thought. "Our Pack Hunted," he said, "You and Alpha went casting for the Hunt, I stayed in the Den. Then the wolves arrived, hunting you. There were two, an Elder and a Young."

"A Young?" asked Dean.

"A Young," repeated Jimi, "Like me. Not an Elder yet, like you and Second. Learning. He hunted you. You wounded him, and the Elder intervened. I had to Cross, to warn you. You didn't know there were two." He paused, and turned on the most convincing display of Sammy Eyes Dean had ever seen from a human. "Apologies for leaving the Den, Alpha, but you didn't know! He hunted my Pack!"

"Leaving the Den?" Dean shook his head. "He's speaking English, but I'm not understanding all of it…"

"The car," guessed Sam, "He means the car. The one constant we have. The car is our home. His Den. It's okay, Jimi," he reassured the, well, teen, "It was an emergency. It's okay to, er, Cross, in an emergency like that, just so long as the rest of the time, you stay in the car – the Den – when you're told."

"Gratitude, Second," said Jimi, "I submit." He turned to Dean. "Alpha?"

"What? Oh, yeah, yeah, um, Crossing is allowed in emergency situations. You showed initiative and good judgement, and handled the werewolf well. Good job. Very well done. Good boy."

Jimi's face lit up with a happy smile, and he flung himself at Dean again with a happy cry of "Alpha!"

"Hey, I think he appreciates the feedback, bro," smiled Sam, as Dean held uncomfortably still in Jimi's embrace.

"Well, right now, I'd appreciate him putting some clothes on," he replied, disengaging from the hug. "Jimi, we need to you get dressed, okay? Put on clothes. Like these." He indicated his own t-shirt.

Jimi frowned, and looked down again. "No fur," he commented.

"Well, not very much, and certainly not enough to keep away the cold," Sam told him. "Or the arrest for public indecency. So, while you're, um, Upright, you'll have to wear clothes. It's the fur that humans – Uprights – put on and off."

Jimi eyed him dubiously, but nodded reluctantly. "I submit," he said.

"Right then," smiled Sam cheerfully, "Let's see what Dean has that will fit you."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean's clothing turned out to be a close enough fit for Jimi, who was only a little bit shorter and physically smaller. Getting the clothes onto him wasn't all that hard, either – he had always been a quick learner.

The difficulty lay in getting him to leave his clothes on.

After three minutes, he was pulling at the sleeves of his t-shirt. "Can I undress this now?" he asked plaintively.

"Er, no, Jimi," replied Sam, "Uprights have to leave their clothes on."

"How long?" asked Jimi, suddenly sounding a lot younger than sixteen-ish.

"We wear clothes all day," Sam explained, "Because we have no fur."

A look of utter horror crossed Jimi's face.

"All day?" he gasped, pulling at the sleeves again, "No! It's scratchy!" He pulled the shirt over his head, and yanked down his sweatpants and shorts, getting them stuck on the sneakers on his feet. He growled in frustration.

"Jimi," said Dean, "Pull your pants up again right now."

Jimi performed a spectacular pout, and reluctantly hitched his pants back up, turning the Sammy Eyes up to 'intense pathos'."

"Good," Dean told him, "Now leave them there."

He did.

For another three minutes.

"This is itchy!" wailed Jimi.

"Jimi, you pull those back up and leave them up," ordered Dean.

"No!" howled Jimi, shuffling away from Dean, hampered considerably by having his feet tangled in the pants around his ankles.

"When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it," Dean growled at him. Jimi cranked the eyes up past 'intense pathos' to 'martyred misery', and slowly did as he was told.

"Shirt," instructed Dean, watching as Jimi reluctantly complied.

"It's scratchy, Alpha," he complained.

"You'll get used to it," Sam said, "And you have have to wear clothes any time you go outside."

"Why?" asked Jimi, genuinely curious.

"Er, so people don't see you, um, naked," Sam answered.

"Why?" Jimi asked again.

"Because it's... impolite," Sam finished helplessly, waving his arms. "You just... do. It's just what humans – Uprights – do."

Jimi nodded in understanding. "This is the way of things," he said, looking resigned.

"Yes, exactly," added Dean, "So, no more striptease act, okay? Leave your clothes on."

"Yes, Alpha," sighed Jimi, sounding very convincingly like a put-upon human teenager.

"We should go eat," Dean said to Sam, "I guess we'd better feed him like a human for now."

"I'll get onto Bobby as soon as we get back," Sam decided, "He may have some idea about what the hell has happened here. And, more importantly, how the fuck we undo it."

"Amen to that. We still have to figure out how to deal with the Young werewolf," Dean reminded him. "It's the first night of the real three-day full moon tonight – it'll have to change. We just gotta find it... what's he doing?" Jimi was standing by the external door of their room.

"I need to go outside," he told them. "I have clothes on," he added.

"Oh. Oh," said Sam, realising what the problem was. "Er, Dean, your... teenager needs to go take a leak. You'd better explain to him how humans deal with it."

"Oh God, it is totally too early in the day to be dealing with this," moaned Dean.

"Alphaaaaaa," whined Jimi, pawing at the door with his hand.

"Jimi, look, while you're human like us – Upright – you'll have to learn to do certain things like an Upright," started Dean, "Like wearing clothes, and... and... going outside.. inside."

Jimi cocked his head, and looked confused. "Alpha?"

Dean sighed. "Maybe it's easiest just to demonstrate what's required," he said, with a forced grin. "What do you say, Sam? Toss you for it?"

"You're on your own with this one, Alpha big brother," grinned Sam, clearly enjoying Dean's discomfort.

"Right. Right. Okay. I taught you to do this. It won't be a big deal." Dean took a deep breath, and put a hand on Jimi's shoulder. "Okay, you come with me," he steered the boy into the bathroom, "And I'll show you how humans take care of this. It's... the way of things."

The door shut behind them.

There was a moment of silence.

Then Jimi burst back out of the bathroom, a look of horrified disbelief on his face.

"Jimi, what's wrong?" asked Sam worriedly.

"Second! Second!" Jimi quavered, pointing back to the bathroom, "Alpha just _peed_ in the _water dish_!"

* * *

Whenever you post a review for a fan fiction, the act of leaving feedback will invariably bring a sense of accomplishment to the author, who may have a limited number of sources of such enjoyment in his or her life, and in fact through this act of charity, you will also benefit yourself with the knowledge that you have done something to bring another person happiness - I use the word happiness, but the receipt of reviews may result in something closer to joy, enrapture and wordless elation, as the author falls upon the feedback with inarticulate noises of gladness and enjoyment. This sort of generous exchange between members of the fanfiction community is an example of the mutual support possible when humanity is acting on its most noble impulses, and inspires and encourages both readers and authors to enjoy this harmless pastime,it's particularly encouraging to know that there is no actual fornication involved although there are some stories containing disturbingly detailed accounts of such iniquitous behaviour, of course when I say 'harmless' I do not mean to imply that too much time in front of the computer is not detrimental, nor is it wise to seek 'inspiration' from alleged occult beings who are supposedly fuelled by cocoa bean extracts compounded with milk solids and sugar, especially when spending time sitting doing nothing more than typing I'm speaking Castielsh again, aren't I?


	6. Chapter 5

OMGOMG so many reviews for one chapter OMGWTFBBQ! You are all so naise! *sniff* You give me a happy. WAAAAAAAAAH!

I am trying for a plot with this one, fair dinkum, but work in the real world gets in the way and distracts me, you know how it is. Oh, and people keep shooing PLOT BUNNIES in my direction, curse you! (Elf, I really don't know if I could possibly even cope with the mention of mpreg in a story, let alone get Sam and Dean to explain it. In Castielsh. Look, I've broken out in a rash just typing the m-word. You really do have to separate the boy bunnies and girl bunnies...)

Oh, yeah - a profile avatar: I has one! But I warn you, put on your tinfoil hat if you want to look at it, because your brain might asplode from the cyoot.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"Okay, we're going to eat like humans," explained Dean, watching Jimi in the mirror. "It means you have to sit down, at a table, and not face-plant into your breakfast like you usually do."

"I will eat Upright prey? Human kibble?" asked Jimi eagerly, fiddling with the window winder.

"Yeah, but you gotta watch Sam – Second – and me to see how humans do it."

"Will there be... bacon?" Jimi's mouth fell open in awe at the very idea.

"If you like," smiled Sam, "But like Dean says, you have to watch, and learn."

"Yes, Second," said Jimi obediently, "I submit." Then he began bouncing on the seat. "Bacon bacon bacon bacon bacon!"

"Yup, he's just like you," smirked Sam as the Impala pulled into a diner's parking lot.

A waitress with decidedly pneumatic assets, long legs and a short skirt took their order. Dean deployed the Killer Smile with his order – she giggled, and turned to Jimi.

"What can I get you, handsome?" she asked him.

"Bacon!" he replied immediately, with a huge smile. He paused, and sniffed deeply. "You smell good. You rolled in something interesting." He gazed up at her adoringly, as Sam swallowed a snort of laughter and Dean gave her a desperate grin.

Fortunately, she saw the funny side. "I guess you got your charm from your Daddy as well as your looks, sweetie," she told him. Dean stifled a splutter as he finished the order, and Sam let the laugh out.

"Jimi," muttered Dean as she left their table, "Humans don't roll in things. That was probably the smell of the kitchen on her uniform."

"She does smell good, though, doesn't she?" Jimi continued enthusiastically, "Receptive." He studied Dean carefully, and sniffed at him. "You think so, too. You want to mate with her. Will you mate with her tonight?"

Sam let his head fall to the table, shoulders shaking. "Well, 'Daddy'?" he asked, "Answer the boy."

Dean bared clenched teeth at Sam. "When this is over, you are SO dead," he hissed, before turning back to Jimi. "Well, I might get her number, and see if she's interested..."

"She is," said Jimi casually, as if describing a weather forecast, "What's a 'Daddy'?"

"... and maybe we'll go to a bar or something... what?" Dean's brain, off kilter from one awkwardly blunt question, waved its arms wildly in a desperate attempt to avoid falling over entirely.

"It's a human word," Sam told him, "Another word for the, er, Alpha of a pack. Daddy – Dad. Father. Sire."

Jimi regarded Dean seriously. "You did not mate with my Dam," he announced.

Sam clamped his mouth shut, and let out a strangled squeaking noise.

"No, no, that's true, I didn't," Dean agreed, his brain giving up and just tucking its arms in and trying to roll out of the fall.

"As a human, an Upright, you do look a lot like him," said Sam, "And it might be a good idea to pretend that he is. You can't go calling us 'Alpha' and 'Second' in front of other humans."

"Why?" asked Jimi with his guileless expression, "It is how a pack works. It is the way of things."

"Yes," Sam tried to explain, "But human packs – families – work differently. There are different words. You should call Alpha, Dean, 'Dad'."

"No he shouldn't!" Dean shot back, looking alarmed, but it was too late.

"Dad. Dad. Daaaaaaad. Dadadadad," went Jimi, testing the word out. "Dad!" he smiled widely again, seemingly satisfied with the new terminology. Dean shot a death-ray glare at Sam, who smiled back angelically.

"He does have your looks," Sam pointed out, "And your no-frills approach to dealing with the opposite sex."

"Yeah, thanks for that, _Uncle Sammy_," snarked Dean.

"I like the idea of being an uncle," mused Sam, "All the fun, and none of the consequences..."

"Sam..."

"Uncle Sammy!" piped up Jimi happily.

"Sneak him beer when you're not looking..."

"Sam..."

"Or maybe just fill him up with Red Bull and candy, then give him back..."

Their food arrived before Dean could threaten to do anything that would compromise Sam's ability to have his own children some day, and set to trying to teach Jimi the rudiments of eating like a human.

Knife and fork weren't that difficult, but getting him to drink his orange juice without lapping and slurping at it proved difficult. He coughed and spluttered.

"It's choking meeeeee!' he complained, after spitting out a mouthful back into the glass then lapping at it again.

"Okay, we'll have to work on that," muttered Dean. Jimi sniffed curiously at his coffee.

"What's that?" he asked. "You have that all the time."

"It's coffee," Sam told him.

"Can I have some?" asked Jimi.

"NO!" chorused the Winchesters.

Their waitress returned to clear their plates. "So, what do you boys have planned for today?" she asked pleasantly.

"Oh, we have a Hunt to finish," Jimi replied in a matter-of-fact tone, "And Dad will probably end up mating with you."

"Really?" she smiled, as Sam suddenly found something utterly fascinating to study on the ceiling, and Dean's mouth dropped open.

"Yes," continued Jimi, "I'll get another room with... Uncle Sammy. He doesn't mate. And I'm not allowed, though I'd like to. Or we'll wait in the Den."

"Oh, sweetie," she told him, "I have no intention of doing anything that would get you thrown out of your room, that's mean of your Daddy."

"It's because I jump on the bed," Jimi confided gloomily, "Females don't like it if I jump on the bed while they're mating. Especially if I try to lick them, or sniff their..."

"No, I'm sure they don't," she said, eyeing Dean curiously. He gulped, and gave her a despairing shrug.

"Maybe you could lead him back to your den, and mate with him there?" Jimi asked, big soulful eyes looking up at her hopefully.

Sam cleared his throat. "You'll have to excuse my nephew," he said apologetically, "He's a good boy, he just has... Doingo Syndrome, a condition on the autism spectrum. It means he doesn't have the same sort of filters on his behaviour and speech that most people learn as they become cognisant of social conventions – he can't do the 'self censorship' that the rest of us learn as being polite, or discreet."

Understanding dawned on her face. "Ah," she said, "I have a little cousin with Asperger's. He's a bit like your boy here. Although, I must say, not as charming as this one."

"That's our Jimi," smiled Sam, putting an arm around the teen's shoulders, "We love him just the way he is." Jimi leaned contentedly on Sam's arm.

"Yeah," echoed Dean faintly, "Wouldn't have him any other way, no more legs required..."

"You do smell good, though," Jimi told her.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asked, clearly trying to stifle laughter.

"Pie!" Jimi burst out. "Can we have pie, Dad?"

Dean frowned at Jimi. "You've just had breakfast... son..." he told him.

Jimi turned on the Big Brown Eyes. "Daaaaaaaaaad," he whined, as if he'd been sixteen forever.

"Jimi..."

"Daaaaaaaaaaad," whined Sam, grinning.

"Fine," growled Dean, "Pie. Pie all around for the whiny little bitches."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Well slap my ass and call me Shirley," said Bobby, removing his ever-present hat and scratching his head as Sam explained what had transpired, then pulled Jimi into view front of the laptop.

"Dam-Alpha!" bubbled Jimi happily.

"Unbelievable," breathed Bobby incredulously, "Unbe-fucking-lievable. If you hadn't just filled me in, Sam, I'd assume that you're idjit brother had pissed off a witch. Dean, he's the spittin' image of you at about sixteen, except for the eyes."

"Yeah, so I've been told," Dean answered crankily. Bobby narrowed his eyes.

"You aint been out in the yard doin' anything, you know, unnatural with Rumsfeld, have you, because the resemblance is bordering on creepy..."

"Bobby!" shrieked Dean in a horrified tone.

"I'm just sayin'," Bobby finished.

"Perhaps we can theorise about Dean's possible bestiality proclivities later," suggested Sam, provoking an outraged squawk from Dean, "Right now, we have to worry about getting Jimi back to his normal flatulent four-legged self."

"Well, I've never heard of a dog getting bit by a werewolf, and turning into a werehuman," Bobby told them, "But then again not many Hunters train dogs up, and I've never heard of what happens if a hellhound gets bit. With Jimi, and his sisters, too, we're really in unknown territory here. Like the balls of steel."

"Plus, we still have the Young werewolf to deal with here," Sam reminded them.

"You wanna bring him back here and work on this?" asked Bobby. "It's okay, Dean," he added generously, with a grin, "I'll understand completely if you feel out of your depth handling a teenage version of yourself for a few days..."

"Hey!" protested Dean, "I will have you know that I am totally capable of dealing with a teenager – _again_," he said, shooting an expression that came perilously close to being a bitchface at Sam, "And Sam's right, we have a werewolf to deal with here. Jimi will behave himself for a few more days, and then we can sort this out," he finished, "Right, Jimi?"

"Yes, Dad," Jimi smiled, hugging Dean again and doing his wiggle-dance, much to Bobby's amusement.

"Well, I'll see what I can dig up, there may be someone I can ask," he told them, "Meanwhile, there's something I'll need you to get for me, Sam."

"Sure, Bobby," Sam replied, "What do you need?"

"Photographic evidence, boy," Bobby smiled hugely, "And plenty of it!"

"You can count on me, Bobby," grinned Sam, as Dean squawked in outrage again.

"I totally hate you both so much," he growled.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"There's at least a dozen medical clinics, but bullet wounds would need hospital treatment," mused Sam. "Gunshot wounds are reportable, and a shooting injury would make the local news at the very least, especially if it was a kid, as Jimi thinks."

Dean was poring over the map again. "If it was a juvenile, being, what, taught? Guided? Mentored? It might've been the adult trying to be discreet, keep their hunting as low profile as possible. Any reports of middle-aged men gone missing?"

"No, but that would be easier to cover," replied Sam. "You could just say that he'd been called away on a family emergency, or a business trip, or gone on vacation, or come down with some chronic illness... if there is some deliberate effort to keep this quiet, whoever is involved may make a point of not drawing attention to the juvenile."

"So, one dead unidentified old-school werewolf, and one juvenile out there somewhere," humphed Dean. "I wonder if they were related?" A thought struck him, and he turned to his new teenaged charge. "Jimi, could you tell... oh God, not again..."

Jimi lounged contentedly on the sofa, chewing on his squeaky pig toy, wearing nothing but a happy expression. Again. "Alph - Dad?" he asked, looking up attentively.

"How the hell does he do that?" sighed Dean, noticing that Jimi had managed to get his shoes off first this time. "I take my eyes off him for two minutes..."

"It must be a dog detection-avoidance thing," replied Sam, "Like he used to do as a puppy, you know, go into Stealth Mode when he wanted to do something he shouldn't – when it went too quiet, we knew he was headed for the trash, or lining up to crap behind the sofa, or abducting socks."

Jimi, you're naked," observed Dean, "What did we say earlier about clothes?"

"That Uprights – humans have wear them when they go outside," replied Jimi promptly, looking pleased with himself for remembering this lesson.

"Uprights wear them all day, because they have no fur," Dean corrected. "Jeez, you could at least leave your shorts on."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to," answered Dean shortly.

"But Dad..." began Jimi.

Sam grinned. "He even sounds like you did," he told Dean.

"Just do it, Jimi," growled Dean, "You put your clothes back on, right now, young man!"

"Why?" Jimi asked again.

"Because nobody wants to look at your junk!" burst out Dean. "It's creepy and pervy and wrong! Get dressed!"

"I submit," sighed Jimi, in the put-upon tone of teenagers everywhere who have been told 'You Are Not Going Anywhere Dressed Like That'.

"Jimi," Sam asked as Dean helped him get his shoes back on, "Can you tell us anything about the Young werewolf from last night?"

Jimi thought briefly. "A male Young," he answered. "You wounded him. He left when you killed his Alpha."

"That was his Alpha?" Dean looked up.

"Yes. His sire. His Dad. He was upset. He felt sick. But he left by himself, " Jimi finished, looking sadly down at his pants-clad legs. "He was naked outside," he added, with a trace of resentment.

"That's because werewolves are monsters," Dean told him, "They're cursed, ravening, blood-crazed monsters, who do unforgivably dreadful things, like kill people, tear their hearts out, and run around with no clothes on. If he told you to jump off a cliff, would you want to do that, too?"

"He wouldn't tell me to do that," Jimi pointed out, "Because if we met again, we'd fight, not talk."

"Don't answer back," Dean said sharply, "That's an order."

Jimi lapsed into silence.

Dean turned back to Sam. "What the hell are you grinning about, Aunty Samantha?" he demanded.

"Me?" asked Sam in a surprised voice. "Me? I'm not grinning, I'm just sitting here, trying to find any reports of missing men or gunshot-wounded teenage boys, and being impressed by your totally awesome parenting skills."

"I will take this opportunity to remind you both that neither of you is too big to be put across my knee," Dean rumbled.

"Master Dean, currently in session," muttered Sam. Dean glared at him. "Jimi, if you met the Young werewolf in his human form, would you recognise him?"

"Of course," replied Jimi, "By his scent. Wouldn't you?"

"Er, no," Sam explained, "Humans – that is, real humans, like me and Dean – don't have a very good sense of smell compared to a dog. Generally, we can't recognise other humans by smell."

"Oh," said Jimi in a small voice full of compassion. "That's sad."

Sam looked thoughtful. "I'll keep at it with the info search – give me that map and your notes – you could go out and, you know, do your social animal thing, mingle with the locals, check out the local purveyors of pie, and see if Jimi can find anything. It's a long shot, but at this point, it's really all we have to go on until moonrise tonight."

Dean sighed heavily. "Oh, the things I do for this job," he complained, "Spending the day roaming from one place to another, eating pie and checking out the talent. I don't get paid enough. What do you think, J-Man? Feel like going out to eat some pie, check out some bitches and, er, generally sniff some butt?"

Jimi's face lit up. "That sounds... awesome, Dad!" he said, doing his wiggle-dance.

"Okay, I just need to talk to Uncle Sammy about this, you go use the bathroom, like I showed you," Dean grabbed the map, and started pointing out the patterns he'd identified.

The handover took longer than he'd expected, both Winchesters getting distracted with possible plans for backtracking and attempting to find the werewolf's home. Dean suddenly looked up.

"Is he still in the bathroom?" he said, largely to himself.

"It's awfully quiet in there," noted Sam.

Dean knocked on the bathroom door. "Everything okay in there, Jimi?" he called.

"Oh, yeah, Dad, yeah," Jimi answered in a breathy tone.

Dean's face drained of colour. "No, no, tell me he's not..."

Sam raised his hands in surrender. "You're on your own, Dad," he told his brother. He turned back to the laptop, trying desperately not to laugh.

The conversation drifting out of the bathroom was something he would take to his grave.

"JESUS CHRIST JIMI STOP THAT!"

"Oh, Dad, it's awesome..."

"STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"

"But it feels really..."

"I DON'T CARE! YOU STOP THAT!"

"But Uprights can't lick it..."

"JIMI! You stop that RIGHT NOW or I SWEAR I'll CUT IT OFF!"

"Why? You do it. I hear you and smell you."

"WHAT?"

"When Uncle Sammy is away casting, or asleep. You do it. When you're in the water."

"That's irrelevant! GET YOUR HAND OFF IT! AND GET IT BACK IN YOUR PANTS!"

"Yes, Dad... ow, that's really uncomfortable!"

"I DON'T CARE! DON'T YOU TOUCH THAT AGAIN!"

"But, but, what about when I want to... go outside?"

"DON'T GET SMART WITH ME, BOY!"

Dean emerged from the bathroom with Jimi in tow, wearing a murderous expression.

"If you say a fucking word, I will break your legs, slit your face, tear your guts out through your ass and cut your hair off," he growled at Sam as they passed.

"Not a peep, bro," replied Sam, not even looking up from his laptop.

As soon as they'd left, he dived onto his bed and buried his face in the pillow, screaming into it with laughter until he thought his ribs might bust.

Then he dialled up Bobby again.

After taking a moment to arrange the lotion, tissues and wet wipes prominently on Dean's bed.

* * *

Wearing clothes is not compulsory when writing reviews, but keeping your underwear on is a nice touch.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Now, I'm going to be talking to people, trying to find out anything that might help us find the werewolf," Dean told Jimi, "While you keep your eyes – and nose – open. If you notice anything that might help, wait until you can tell me with nobody else hearing, okay?"

"Yes, Dad," said Jimi, excited to be helping cast for the Hunt like an Elder.

"And stick to our cover story," continued Dean, "If anybody asks, what are we doing?"

"You and me and Uncle Sammy are in town for a few days, for some man-time," recited Jimi, "Fishing and walking and stuff."

"And your mother?"

"My Mom died when I was a pup."

"When you were a baby, when you were little," Dean corrected him.

"...When I was a baby," repeated Jimi dutifully, beaming at being trusted to take part in laying an ambush for the werewolf.

"What do you do if your phone rings?"

Jimi pulled Dean's other, other, other phone out of a pocket. "I push this button, and talk to it."

"You got your emergency card?"

Jimi obediently flourished the card, which named him as Jimi Winchester, a boy of sixteen with a form of autism, and gave contact numbers for his father and his uncle.

"What do you do if you get lost?"

"I find someone who smells right, and show them this," Jimi said confidently, waving the card. "Then I do this." He made a Puppy-Dog Eyes face that would make Sam Winchester cry himself to sleep over having to give back the sash and tiara for World's Most Effective Emotional Blackmailer. "Then I wait for them to contact you, and kiss my ass goodbye because so help you young man you are going to kick it from here to Kingdom Come if I do get lost."

"And what will you do at all times?"

"Stay in sight, no Crossing, don't interfere with your mating, keep my clothes on, and keep my hand off it," Jimi replied with a small put-upon sigh.

"Okay," nodded Dean, pulling the car into a parking spot, "The little touch of teenage 'tude is very convincing. Anybody would think you were a real boy, Pinnochio. Let's go."

They dropped into a number of places that looked like they might be local gathering sites. Several female residents – and their daughters – noticed how much the handsome newcomer's son resembled him.

"He inherited your taste for pie, too," remarked one attractive brunette waitress whose name tag identified her as Rachel. Jimi looked up from his fourth piece of pie for the day, and grinned adorably.

"Well, he's at that age," said Dean, "Eats like a horse, and I have no idea where it all goes. To an alternative universe or something, or maybe he has hollow legs." He smiled at Jimi, ruffling his hair, while his 'son' beamed happily at the attention.

"If I tried that with my son, he'd make a noise like I'd just cut his arm off, and refuse to speak to me for a week," Rachel snorted, "So, you boys aren't local, what are you doing in Devils Lake?"

"We're doing man-time" answered Jimi, "Fishing, walking, stuff. With Uncle Sammy."

"My brother," Dean supplied, loading the Killer Smile for rapid deployment. He'd noticed that Rachel wasn't wearing a wedding ring. She followed his gaze.

"He took off, ten years ago," she sighed, "Said he couldn't handle the 'responsibility' of being a parent. Asshole."

"Oh, his loss," said Dean earnestly, "It's the best job in the world." She cocked an eyebrow at him; she'd been checking out his left hand...

"My Mom died when I was little," Jimi told her. "It's just me and Dad. And Uncle Sammy, of course. It's like I've got two Daddies!"

Rachel laughed at that, as Dean's face coloured slightly. "Sam is my brother," he muttered, "Really. Even if his hair does look extremely... flamboyant."

"Oh, hey, I believe you."

"So, it's just you and your son, then?" Dean asked casually.

"He's staying with his grandparents for the school vacation," she told him with equal non-concern. "The house is so quiet, it's amazing."

Jimi looked up at Dean, at Rachel, then back to Dean. "Dad," he asked a little hesitantly, "Is it all right if I just tell her she smells good?" He deployed the Sammy Eyes, for good measure.

"Oh, God, he's adorable!" she cooed, laughing, and Dean laughed too, letting the Killer Smile slide into place. Jimi sniffed again, remarkably discreetly, but stayed quiet, returning to his pie.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Did I do good?" asked Jimi later.

"You did great," Dean told him, smirking at the thought of the napkins bearing phone numbers in his pocket. He'd thought that having a 'son' would be a hindrance to his usual socialising activities, but as it had turned out, he was an asset. As a dog, Jimi was a chick magnet – maybe it wasn't entirely surprising that as a werehuman, he had that effect, too. Dean wasn't going to complain.

"Where are we going now?" questioned Jimi.

"Beer run," Dean told him, "And 'we' are not going anywhere. I am going. You are staying here. I won't be long. No Crossing, okay?"

"I submit," said Jimi, with a slightly Samesque humph, as Dean parked and left the car.

He was contemplating the various brands of potato chips when Sam called him.

"I've heard back from Bobby," Sam told him. "He can't find anything useful on his own, but he has a contact that he says might be able to help, has expertise with Old North werewolves."

"That's great," answered Dean, making a selection for his crunchy afternoon TV viewing pleasure. There was a silence on the end of the line. "... And? Where's the 'and'? I can hear an 'and' there, Sam. Possibly a 'but'."

"Uh," Sam hesitated, "He says he thinks you're not going to like it."

"We're kind of running out of options, here, Sam..."

"I agree with him," Sam continued glumly. "I don't think you're going to like it."

"Oh, come on," Dean told him, "If it's someone Bobby's recommended, it's probably the best shot we've got..."

Sam gave Dean a name.

Several people turned around and glared disapprovingly at the man customer perusing the snacks and swearing a blue streak.

"I have a contact number. And a Skype address."

"Oh, this just gets better and better," Dean growled. "Okay, I'll be back soon. Maybe I'll need something a bit stronger than beer."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Jimi sat in the Den, as instructed. He was sitting in the front seat, where his Second usually sat, feeling very grown-up. This whole being Upright thing was strange. He was glad that he could still help with the Hunt, but... being Upright was so very _complicated_.

He wriggled in his seat, and sighed, looking out the window and pressing his nose to the small gap. Across the road, the sounds of excited voices drifted on the breeze from the park. He smiled. _Play!_

He regarded the door seriously. His Alpha – Dad – had told him 'no Crossing'. So he wouldn't.

Thoughtfully, he put his hand on the door latch and opened it, got out of the car, and carefully shut the door behind him. Feeling very grown-up and obedient, he made his way to the park.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Great, just fucking great, Dean thought, shuffling forward in the checkout queue, too annoyed with the universe in general even to flirt with the young lady on the till although she was in possession of a rack he could rest his basket on. I'm on the trail of a werewolf that's possibly gone into hiding, my dog has turned into a human for fuck knows how long, he's waaaaay too convincing as a human teenager, he has no discretion filters on what he says, he's discovered Special Me-Time, and to cap it off Bobby says that we should ask that, that, that, patronising smartass for an opinion. And they only had one packet of jerky left. Fuck My Life.

He consoled himself with the thought of potential female company later – maybe Rachel would lead him back to her den to mate, he smiled to himself – and if nothing else, he had Dr Daniels' Fuck My Life Medicine to make the world a better place for a short time. Maybe he could spend some quality time with his brother, annoying the hell out of him, or commandeer the laptop, introduce Jimi to the wonders of the internet, see if the kid could make the computer freeze on an interesting R-rated website...

He'd almost cajoled himself out of his grump when he got back to the Den – his Baby, he corrected himself, the last thing he needed was to start talking Jimispeak – and noted that the car was empty.

"Shit," he muttered, dumping his purchases in the back and looking around anxiously. He hadn't been gone that long, had he? The kid couldn't have gone far. Ohhhh, he was SO going to tear him a new one...

He was reaching for his phone when the sound of enthusiastic yelling caught his attention. A group of kids had a game of football going in the park across the road. Suddenly, a newly familiar figure burst from the pack, running backwards, expertly grabbing the ball that sailed towards him, then sprinting for the other end, effortlessly brushing off would-be tacklers as his team-mates cheered him on.

Oh shit.

Dean crossed the road, wondering idly who any bystanding adults would be likely to call when he'd finished with Jimi, CPS or the SPCA.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It was a Lecture. Sam knew it was a Lecture from the tone of the Lecturer, long before he could make out the actual words being Lectured at the Lecturee.

"... where the hell you were, when I saw the car empty, you worried the hell out of me, the next time I tell you to stay put, I mean _stay put_, is that clear?"

"But Dad, you told me not to Cross" – that was clearly a Lecturee making the fatal mistake of trying to argue a trivial point of language – "And I didn't. I used the handle, like you showed me. I could see the Den – the car – the whole time. AND I kept all my clothes on, AND I didn't touch it at all!"

"I thought I told you not to answer me back!"

The door opened, and Dean herded Jimi inside. Sam couldn't stifle a laugh – the kid was covered in mud and grass stains from head to foot.

"Hey, Jimi, what you been up to?" he asked, as Dean shot him an 'I Will Kill You Later Samantha' look.

"I learned football!" Jimi told him happily, "I was watching a pack playing in the park, and they said one of them didn't turn up today, so they asked me, and it's like Chase, and Rassling and Fetch!"

"He got out of the car, when I specifically told him to stay put," Dean growled, radiating equal parts of anger and relief.

"But Dad, I didn't Cross…"

"Don't you talk back to me! Look at you, you're filthy!"

"All the other Young were filthy, too," said Jimi, a trifle defiantly.

"There were girls watching," Dean told Sam, in a tone so loaded and accusatory that it was all Sam could do to keep himself from laughing out loud.

"Jimi, I think Dean – Dad – was just worried about you," Sam intervened. "You're not like other human Young, you've just been turned into one temporarily. He just wants you to be safe until we can get you back to your proper four-legged form."

"Yes, Uncle Sammy," said Jimi contritely, with a low-wattage version of the Sammy Eyes.

"Actually, if he can mix with the local kids, he might be able to find out something, keep an ear to the ground, figuratively speaking," mused Sam thoughtfully.

Jimi looked up hopefully. "They were friendly," he said, "They said I was a good player, and I could join their pack next time they have play."

Dean scowled at two pairs of Sammy Eyes. "Don't you two dare even think about trying to double-team me," he rumbled. "I am Alpha of this pack, so you, Young, and you, Bitch, will get with the program, or I will pin you, put my teeth on your throats and growl ferociously."

Sam looked up. "You know, we have fangirls who would just love to see that, although Chuck will scream blue murder if you make him write it, and frankly Master Dean I don't have your kinks."

Jimi looked at Sam curiously. "Uncle Sammy is not a bitch," he said in a confused voice, "Although he would look like a human one if he was shorter…"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I hate everybody," he announced. "But before I can spend some quality time with my therapist, Dr Jack Daniels, and his patented I Hate Everybody Medicine, we gotta get you cleaned up, Jimi. Get those dirty clothes off."

Jimi's face brightened. "I can take my clothes off?"

"Yeah, you gotta take your clothes off to have a bath…" Sam said without thinking.

Jimi's eyes opened wide, and with a yelp, he shot under Dean's bed.

_Fuck My Life_, thought Dean. "Well done, you Educated Idiot," he growled, "You said the b-word in front of the dog. Jimi, come on out from there."

The only answer was a sad whine.

Sam bent down and peered under the bed. "I'm sorry, Jimi," he apologised, "I didn't mean to say… that word. You don't have to have a, you know, one of those, you can have a shower."

The large, anxious eyes looked at him suspiciously.

"It's a different way to wash," Sam continued, "You don't sit in the water, it falls down on you, like rain."

"Rain?" asked Jimi. He looked thoughtful, then understanding dawned. "Standing up? Like you and Dad?"

"Yeah, just like that. Like Elders."

Jimi crawled out from under the bed. "I can really wash just like you do? How our Alpha does?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure," Dean told him, "Just like me."

Jimi smiled broadly, and started wriggling out of his clothes. "Shower!" he announced happily.

"Wow, that was easier than I'd expected," Dean remarked, following Jimi as he bounded into the bathroom. "Maybe you're not as clueless as you look, Samantha."

"I exist only to serve, O Alpha Of My Pack," his brother answered, making an elaborate bow.

Dean started the water running as Jimi examined the items in the shower recess. "These are Second's – Uncle Sammy's," he asserted, sniffing at some of the bottles.

"That's right," Dean agreed, smiling, "Which means you can use as much as you like." He handed the shower gel to Jimi. "Now, you wash yourself all over with this stuff, and let the water rinse it off. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Dad," Jimi smiled pack, stepping under the water and laughing.

"Just give me a call if you need any help, okay?" Dean finished, jumping back as Jimi shook vigorously, sending water everywhere.

"So, any rumbles on the grapevine?" Sam asked him as he emerged from the bathroom.

"Not regarding any missing men, or suspiciously injured teenagers," Dean told him, ruffling through his bag for clean clothes for Jimi, "But I did get a couple of phone numbers," he finished with a smirk. "Even as a human kid, he's a chick magnet. Who knew? A certain type of woman apparently finds me even more awesomely desirable than usual as a single father."

"Maybe you can hire one next time," Sam suggested. "I guess it's not entirely unexpected: as a dog, Jimi gets along with everybody he meets, human or canine. He's just a very sociable character."

"Yeah, well, he socialised his way right out of the car and into a scratch football game," Dean remarked. "He scared the shit out of me, Sam – he was just gone. What if he gets lost? What if he does something, or says something, attracts attention we don't need? There were girls watching, Sam, _watching_ watching."

"They used to _watch_ watch you at that age, too, as I recall," Sam reminded him, "And you never complained about it then."

"God, wouldn't that be the icing on the cake, having to explain ourselves to CPS because he blabs to somebody about what we're doing here. What are you grinning at?"

"Do you know who you sound like?" Sam asked Dean. "You're turning into Dad." Dean gave him A Look. "Ooooh, and now look, that's a bitchface – you're turning into me!" he beamed.

Dean put his head in his hands. "One day, Sam," he moaned, "I hope you have kids, and I hope they turn out just like you."

"Nuh-uh," Sam told him gravely, "You can't put that curse on me, you can only put The Dreaded Parents' Curse on your own children."

"I practically raised you, so I reserve the right to curse you, BABY brother," Dean humphed. "You have any luck?"

"Not a thing," Sam confirmed, turning back to the laptop, and filling Dean in on the various databases he'd checked, legally and otherwise. "Nothing at any clinics, no missing persons. Looks like we got a call to make."

"Oh, yeah, I'm soooooo looking forward to that," griped Dean.

"Dean, Bobby wouldn't have even suggested it unless he thought it was our best shot, given that he knows of the, er, lack of fond regard you have for each other," Sam said diplomatically.

"I know, I know, but just because you're right, that doesn't mean I have to like it." He sighed, and looked up. "Jimi's been in the shower a while."

"Well, he likes playing in the rain," observed Sam, "Maybe that's what it reminds him of. Anyway, he'll get out quick enough when the hot water runs out, probably complaining like it's the end of the world, just like you."

"Bitch." Dean went to the bathroom door, and pushed it slightly open. "You okay in there, Jimi?"

"Yeah, Dad, ohhhh, yeah, yeah," came the breathy reply.

Sam bit hard on his lip to stop the laughter, not really succeeding.

"JIMI YOU GET YOUR HAND OFF IT RIGHT NOW STOP IT STOP IT STOP OH OH OH GOD OH GOD JESUS CHRIST NOOOOO!"

Dean emerged from the bathroom in a daze, his face utterly drained of colour. His expression, Sam thought, was exactly what you'd expect on a man who has jumped into a time machine and gone back to be confronted with the sight of himself at sixteen doing what sixteen year olds do.

Sam cleared his throat. "Problem, bro?" he asked politely.

"What has been seen," squeaked Dean, sliding down the wall, "Cannot be unseen…"

"Oh dear," sighed Sam, almost sounding genuinely sypathetic. "He is just like you, isn't he?"

"Wipe that smile of your face, Samantha," wheezed Dean, "He was using your shower gel."


	8. Chapter 7

I have not fired a weapon for 20 years, but I swear, if you people don't stop with the plot bunnies, the voices in my head are telling me to go dig up the stuff that's supposed to stay secret until the Zombie Apocalypse...

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 7**

"Dean, I'm making the looky-talky interwebs computer juju," reported Sam, hovering over the laptop.

"Aw, Saaaaaam," complained Dean around a mouthful of high-fat refined-carb snack food, "We've got a Rin Tin Tin marathon happening here!" He and Jimi lounged on the sofa, bags of unhealthy crunchy foodstuffs strewn around. Jimi was entranced by the television. "He's about to ambush the leopard before it attacks Rusty!"

Sam paused. "There are no leopards in Arizona, Dean, they're found in sub-Saharan Africa."

Dean frowned at the TV. "It looks like a leopard."

_clackity-clackity-tap-tap._ "It's a mountain lion." _Tap-tap-tap-tap._

"No, really," Dean insisted, "It's got spots."

_Tap-tap-tap-clackity-tap._ "Dean, if it's in Arizona, it's a mountain lion."

"Are you saying mountain lions get acne? It's a leopard."

_TAP-TAP-CLACK-CLACK._ "Dean, it is a fucking mountain lion."

"Or a leopard that escaped from a zoo."

Sam gave his brother a glare of Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "Rin Tin Tin was set around 1880, and there were no zoos in Arizona then."

"Maybe it came from another state, got into a rail car and accidentally ended up in…"

_CLACK-CLACK-THUNK_ "DEAN!" barked Sam. "It – is – a – mountain – LION!"

Jimi pointed at the screen. "I've mated with one of those!" he declared excitedly.

Sam allowed himself a small smug smirk in his brother's general direction. "See? Told you. A mountain lion."

Dean sighed heavily. "Okay, okay, this round to you, Professor Sasquatch." He looked thoughtful. "I've mated with a few cougars myself…"

Sam marvelled at the restorative powers of junk food, and the one track nature of what passed for Dean's mind. "Just half an hour ago, your brain was melting down," he observed.

"It's a miracle – all hail the Mighty God Potato Chip!" grinned Dean with another crunch. "Plus, Jimi and I have had a little father-son talk about, you know, stuff, including the etiquette of Special Times, haven't we Jimi?"

"Yes, Dad," replied the teen, copying Dean's action of stuffing chips into his mouth a handful at a time.

"Why does that not reassure me in the least," muttered Sam. as the connection established.

"Hey, Sam," an accented voice drifted from the speakers, "Bobby tells me you fellas might have a bit of a… situation with Jimi."

"Hi, Ronnie," Sam answered pleasantly. "You could say that. Bobby says you're his go-to guru for Old North werewolves…"

"Wow, a guru, huh? I need to get some minions, and go 'Ommmm' a bit more often." The scarred face grinned as Sam called to his brother, "Dean, come talk to the nice werewolf guru, and be civil."

"I don't get paid enough to do civil to that big-noting, know-it-all, showy-offy assbutt," Dean griped.

"Come on out Dean, don't be shy, little guy, we won't hurt you, will we, Joni?" A Rottweiler, smaller and with a finer-boned face than Jimi, popped her head into view, grinning a cheerful doggy grin.

Dean squared his shoulders and sat down next to Sam. "Veronica Shepherd," he said, not so much smiling as baring his teeth. "Frightened any small children lately?"

"Dean Winchester." The long scar running the length of the face on the monitor puckered as the mouth turned up into an amused smile. "Shot any good books lately?" she asked him.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

It was partly Bobby's fault, thought Sam. He insisted on regarding Rumsfeld's pups as furry grandchildren. He took great pride in the achievements of Jimi and Joni, which wouldn't have been a problem, if Joni hadn't given him so much to brag about, and Dean hadn't taken every achievement of Jimi's litter-sister as a personal slight on Jimi and his own dog-training progress.

At four months old, Joni was, on command, lighting up salted and fuel-doused graves, with accurately aimed hellhound peeing. Jimi, not quite in total control of his capacity for incendiary excretion, was setting fire to Sam's shirts when he got excited, or Dean's bedclothes (and on a couple of memorable occasions, shorts) when he was cowering from a thunderstorm.

Before she turned six months old, Joni tackled a turned rugaru. Jimi dug up his first grave – unfortunately, this had the effect of assisting the revenant who was trying to get out of it.

At seven months, Joni brought down her first vampire. Jimi brought down his first hang-glider.

At eight months, Joni killed her first shapeshifter. Jimi killed his first (and only, the Winchesters hoped) sofa.

Just short of her first birthday, Joni had scared a demon right out of its host – and she'd done it in the middle of a thunderstorm. Jimi had chased a curious pigeon out of the Impala, scaring the crap right out of it. Literally. He had done it in the middle of a shitstorm. Literally.

Joni had not yet had sex with a police horse, a stud bull, a mountain lion, or a full-blood hellhound – Jimi had. Dean liked to point this out frequently.

Bobby seemed happily oblivious to Dean's murderous expression whenever he read choice bits from Ronnie's emails, or printed out another picture of Joni – his absolute favourite was the one of her just after she'd disabled a wendigo by tearing its arms off: she stood over its corpse, dancing eyes glowing like red embers, tail waving happily, with one of its limbs in her mouth.

The fact that Bobby was equally effusive the first time Jimi spent all day in the car without needing a puke stop, or the first time that Jimi spent all night indoors without having to Go Outside, didn't seem to help much. Dean was the adoring parent who did not appreciate any reminder that his own child was more 'Special Needs' than 'Accelerated Learning'.

They'd only met Ronnie and Joni, back at Bobby's, once since she'd left the yard. Bobby had fussed happily over the 'granddaughter' he saw least frequently, and Ronnie had demonstrated Joni's range of 'Fetch' vocabulary: knife, gun, shotgun, salt, water, bag, blanket, rope, key, torch. Dean had been primed to dislike them both, but when Joni had demonstrated 'beer' – and the damned animal had actually gone to the refrigerator, fetched a beer, _closed the damned door_ and brought it back, he'd decided that loathing her Hunter was going to be his new hobby.

It had all gone downhill from there, really.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Well, isn't this off to a promising start, thought Sam. as he filled Ronnie in on the case background and events since Dean's evening fishing trip.

""Wow," she said, finally, when Sam finished, "Just… wow. You have anything to add, Dean?"

"Only that if he hadn't left the car and come after us, we'd probably be dead," he growled at her.

"Good thing he had the sense to come help, if not to stay out if the wolf's way," she commented. "So, where is my second-favourite half-hellhound in the whole world? Jimi!"

At the sound of his name, Jimi looked up, and bounded over to the table. He peered at the screen and his face lit up. "Sister!" he cried happily, spraying corn chip crumbs, "Sister-Alpha!" He uttered a short and very canine bark; Joni cocked her head, and woofed back.

"Holy crap," breathed Ronnie, "That's… creepy. In an amazing way. He looks so much like you, Dean…"

"He's just lucky, I guess," smirked Dean.

"… I'm not surprised that Bobby wondered if you'd been bonking Rumsfeld…"

"You're just jealous," he sniffed dismissively.

"Oh, puh-lease, Gorgeous George, I don't do youngsters like you, especially when they're so much prettier than me," she said airily, "So, he definitely got bitten?"

"Absolutely," confirmed Sam, whie the Living Sex God seethed at being called 'pretty' and so casually dismissed, "The teeth marks are visible on his arm."

Ronnie looked thoughtful. "I'm only theorising here," she told them, absently petting Joni's ears, "But this is new territory – it must be tied up with his hellhound heritage. I've seen ordinary dogs get bitten by these things – if they survive, they don't turn, um, werehuman? Crap, I don't even know if that's a real word…"

"It's the one we've been using," Sam sympathised.

"I think you fellas are on the right track," she continued. "The previous pattern suggests an older wolf, with enough self-awareness to try to stay under the radar, or take steps to keep himself out of trouble, maybe lock himself in somewhere, avoid hunting during the change when he can, try to take victims who won't be missed. Not easy – it's like a vampire trying to abstain from blood - but it can be done. If you have back-up – family maybe, who know about your unfortunate monthly excess body hair problem – so much the better if they help.

"Now, let's say something happens, something goes wrong, and a teenager gets bitten. So, now there's a Young to deal with – his son, Jimi says, and I'd trust his nose. He wouldn't have developed any self-awareness, so come full moon, he wolfs out, and is uncontrollable. Maybe the containment procedures didn't work, maybe he got out – maybe the Elder took a decision to let him get it out of his system, in a coverable way, until he could learn some control himself. If they weren't related, the Elder would just kill the Young, if he thought the Young was likely to draw unwanted attention." She paused. "If this pattern goes back far enough, it might even cross another generation. This could be the third, or fourth, in the line."

"So, what happens tonight?" Sam asked, "If the Young wolf has no 'mentor' to watch over him? He breaks the pattern completely, goes nuts without a responsible adult to watch him?"

"If you winged him with silver, I can guarantee that he won't prowl tonight," she said, "If it hasn't killed him by now, he'll feel as sick as, er, well, a dog. His instincts will tell him to hole up, at least for tonight."

"How the hell can you know that?" sniped Dean.

"Because it's what I'd do," she told him, studiously ignoring the snark, "And I know how these things think. Plus, if there is family involved, they'll want to take extra care to keep him in tonight – you've broken cover, and they know Hunters are on his trail."

"If they keep him locked up, there could be no attacks for months," postulated Sam. "And if he has no pre-considered pattern, we have no strategy for finding him."

"I'm not so sure about that," she countered, "He'll be angry – after all, you killed his Alpha, his father. Remember how pissed off Luke Skywalker was? If he does shrug off the silver, and if he's young and otherwise fit he'll do just that, he'll likely come after you, and Jimi. He'll see red, and have no thought for consequences. I'm guessing, tomorrow night, or the following night, he'll come looking for you."

"Well, let's look on the bright side, think of the gas we'll save," humphed Dean. "Hunters Inc. Werewolf Delivery – we bring the fuglies to you, to gank in the privacy and convenience of your own dwelling."

"How about changing Jimi back to, well, Jimi?" asked Sam. Ronnie shrugged.

"Honestly? I'd be guessing, but…"

"I think at this point we'll take anything we can get," Sam told her.

"Even from you," muttered Dean.

"You make me feel special, Dean, you know that?" Ronnie fluttered her eyelashes. "Think about the first time he did the set-something-on-fire pee thing for you. And the first time he did the run-through-solid-wall thing. It was when he was really excited about something, yes?"

"Yeah," replied Dean quickly, kicking Sam who was clearly about to say "Well, actually, he first did them when he was really frightened…"

"So, something got him really worked up, and triggered a manifestation of his… hellhoundness. Maybe - just maybe - if he confronts this wolf again, it'll flip the switch, turn him back into his proper self."

"Which is fine and dandy, except in human form, he has a better chance of getting his ass kicked," Dean scowled at her, "And you have no way of knowing if that'll work."

"You're right. On both counts," she agreed. "But with what I know about how Old North wolves tick, and what I've learned about how hellhounds… work, it's what I'm suggesting." She looked at her watch. "I'm a couple of states away," she continued, "Me and Joni can be there before tomorrow night, give you a hand with Teen Wolf."

"Screw that," muttered Dean. "We're quite capable of handling a werewolf, thank you very much."

"Suit yourself," she answered equably, "Let me know if you change your mind. You'll look after your Alpha and Second, won't you, Jimi?" she finished.

Jimi did his wiggle-dance. "Yes, Sister-Alpha," he said smartly, finishing with a small growl and bark. Ronnie answered him with a gruff humphing sound, and he wiggled harder. Sam raised his eyebrows.

"What can I say? I've Hunted with dogs for a long time – I speak a little bit of Canine. Well, good luck, fellas. Kick this thing's arse. Cheer up, Dean," she added, "At least while he's like this he can fetch you beer. Bye!" Joni barked again, and the connection cut.

"Smug, smarmy, smartass cow," rumbled Dean angrily, "She is so far up herself, she should change her name to Tampax."

"God, you're worse than the mothers on 'Toddlers and Tiaras'," Sam told him.

"Thinks she's so smart, just because she can teach her dog a few fetching tricks!'

"Well, it would be kinda handy, being able to get him to fetch things in the dark, or if you can't find them," Sam told him.

"What happens if her theory doesn't work?" demanded Dean. "What if we find this thing, or it finds us, and Jimi stays human? What if he gets hurt?"

"She said she didn't know for sure, Dean," Sam pointed out, "She told you, she was just theorising, and she did offer to come help."

"Stop being so fucking reasonable!"

"Sorry about that," Sam rolled his eyes, "But I'm right out of ideas about who else to ask."

Dean appeared to reach a decision. "I will give this further thought, but now, since Madam Werewolves-For-Dummies says we have a night off, I am going out," he announced, "I am going out to find me a bar, drink me some beer, hustle me some pool…"

Jimi sniffed. "He wants to mate," he said to Sam, "With the dark-furred female we met while feeding. She was receptive. Her pup is away, and her den is empty."

Sam looked at Dean. "Well, there is that, yeah," his big brother smirked, "Although that blonde, Kerry, she looked like a lady who appreciates male company."

"Oh, she does," agreed Jimi, "Will you fight her pair-bond for mating access?"

Both Winchesters looked at Jimi as if he'd just announced he wanted to live as a woman. And be called Loretta.

"Her 'pair-bond'?" they asked simultaneously.

"His scent was all over her," Jimi explained matter-of-factly. "She is pair-bonded. I do not understand – she is already in whelp to him, Dad, why would you mate with her?"

Sam let out a snort of laughter. "Sounds like you'd best avoid Kerry the Pregnant Pair-Bonded Blonde, bro," he suggested, "Unless you're looking forward to a slot on Jerry Springer."

"Er, yeah," agreed Dean. "You could really tell that from sniffing and looking at her?" Jimi nodded. "Huh. That would be a trick worth learning."

"Can I come too?" asked Jimi, wiggling slightly.

"NO!" Dean said, a trifle hurriedly. "You can stay here with Uncle Sammy, who will feed you boring healthy food, and read you a boring book to improve the boring bits of your mind, and make sure you keep all your clothes on," Dean continued, picking up his jacket and keys.

"Hey, was anybody going to consult me about your social arrangements?" asked Sam.

"I am Alpha here," Dean said seriously, "I don't consult, I delegate. This is the way of things. Don't wait up guys," he finished with a smirk, and left.

Jimi went back to watching his Rin Tin Tin marathon, while Sam went back to his laptop. They sat in companionable silence for a while, until Jimi asked Sam,

"Why aren't I allowed to go with Dad?"

"Because he wants to mate," Sam answered. "You remember you had that talk about, er, 'Special Time' with Dad?" Jimi nodded. "Well, mating counts as a type of 'Special Time', and humans generally don't like to share it with anybody. Except the person they're mating with."

Jimi nodded. "Dad says you don't mate with females," he pronounced.

"Er," replied Sam.

"Dad says you don't mate with anybody," Jimi reported.

"Does he?" replied Sam.

"Not even yourself," finished Jimi.

"Um," went Sam, making a mental note to give Dean a good kick right in the indiscretion. "Look, not everybody wants to mate with anything that has a pulse and the right anatomy, like Dean, and sometimes he says things that are a bit… far-fetched."

Jimi nodded sagely. "I told him he was wrong," he declared triumphantly, "I told him you have Special Time more than he does!"

Sam let out a strangled yelp. "You did?" he squeaked.

Jimi nodded, radiating helpfulness. "Yours lasts longer, too."

Sam put his head in his hands. "Oh, good," he sighed, "Thanks for setting him straight on that, Jimi."

Jimi beamed at having been helpful. "And I don't believe what he said about you mating with that computer thing, either," he added smugly, "Because you never take it into the shower."

"You were very clever to see through his mistake, Jimi, well done," said Sam faintly, wondering if shooting Dean would really count as a murder – he was pretty sure he could make a convincing plea of justifiable homicide.

Still, he thought later, as he settled Jimi under his blanket on the sofa – they reached a compromise, where Jimi would leave his shorts on – Dean hadn't said a word, so maybe there would be no teasing. Maybe he didn't give his older brother enough credit for discretion.

That thought lasted until he got into his own bed, only to sit on the lotion, tissues and wet wipes. All bundled neatly inside a shower cap.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean had never in his life taken a Walk Of Shame – it was more like a Strut Of Self-Satisfied Smugness when he did it, although he at least had the decency to try to make his way back into their room quietly in the darkness. Jimi had been right; Rachel was 'receptive'. Imaginative, too. And flexible.

Two sleepy voices roused briefly. "Dean?" "Dad?"

"Yeah, go back to sleep, ladies," he told them, pulling his boots off. He just had one more thing to do before he climbed into his own bed. He knelt, put his hands together, and closed his eyes.

"Now I lay me down tonight,  
This morning I got such a fright.  
To Castiel, I pray for help  
To fix our canine half-hellwhelp,

Our Jimi has been werewolf bit,  
And turned into a little... brat,  
A human kid, about sixteen,  
Who really isn't very keen

On putting on and wearing clothes –  
In fact, they're some something that he loathes,  
The questions that he asks are tough,  
I've caught him doing Special Stuff

And nearly had a heart attack.  
He disobeys, he's talking back.  
Sam keeps laughing loud with glee  
And saying Jimi's just like me.

I have to keep him safe until  
We find a spell, a magic pill  
Or way to turn him back again  
Before I just go nuts.

Amen.

And if I die before the dawn  
I hope that Heaven has good porn."

Having sent his p-mail, he climbed into bed, where he sat on something. Frowning, he investigated the lump in his bed.

The lotion, the tissues, the wipes, and...

Where the _fuck_ had that long-haired smartass found an _egg timer_?

* * *

Now I sit me down to write,  
I hope my silly ramblings might  
Give giggles, laughs, and just amuse  
So people want to leave reviews.

And if before I'm done, I die,  
I hope that Heaven has wi-fi.


	9. Chapter 8

Snivelling apologies for the delay in getting on with this story. Work has been impossibly hectic, I has had teh sick, the Chocolate-Powered Update Inspiration Fairy has deserted me, and I had to spend my public holiday cleaning out my lizards' enclosure after the little bastards managed to flood it. Waaaaaaah! I just went and re-read all the encouraging reviews for the last chapters, and that helped. Ohai to Bartlebead, hope the jetlag isn't too bad. Oh, and Elf, the reference to being called 'Loretta' is a Monty Python reference, go and watch 'Life Of Brian'- it's okay, if you read my last story you're going to hell anyway so a bit more blasphemy won't hurt, in fact there's the potential for using that reference in a story where Cas tries to convince a fanfic writer that mpreg is impossible but I really don't want to think about that until this is finished CURSE YOU BREEDERS OF PLOT BUNNIES! DARN YOU ALL TO HECK! (That's a Pratchett reference).

Ahem. I hope you will forgive me for my tardiness *grovel grovel*. There's a couple more chapters to go at least, I will try harder. I can only hope the Inspiration Fairy recharges her wand.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Dean dreamed of a remembered afternoon of blue sky, cold beer, and puppy cuddles. It was in the aftermath of a poltergeist job: the poltergeist had played Frisbee with Dean, and he sustained a twisted brain and a concussed knee – or had it been the other way around? Sam had dragged him back to their motel room, where Dean had grumbled about being mother-henned at, and complained "I'm fine, Chicken Little, i's jus' a liddle headache."

An hour later, Sam had found him on his bed, clutching his pillow, wailing, "I want my puppeeeeeee!"

Sam had bundled them into the car, Dean curled up on the back seat – still clutching the pillow, which he'd refused to let go of – and headed for Bobby's yard. They'd finally got him to relinquish the pillow by putting 9-week-old Jimi in the bed with him. Both of them had gone to sleep with adorably happy expressions on their faces. Sam tucked them in. Then took a picture.

For some reason he probably wouldn't want to analyse too deeply, in his dream, Sam was wearing an old-fashioned nurse's cap and cape.

And turning into a giant chicken...

_After two days of being fed soup, toast, Advil and bitchfaces, Dean limped out into the yard, and spent a couple of hours under the hood of a junker that Bobby had told him was a lost cause. He coaxed the reluctant engine back into stuttering life. Feeling suitably smug, he fetched himself a beer, and took it outside to sit under a tree. Sam followed him, flapping his wings anxiously._

"_Cluck cluck concussion, cluck cluck cluck beer cluck cluck, Dean," he said, adding a shot of Henface #4™ (Cluck Cluck Cluck Cluck, Cluck Cluck, Dean.)_

"_I'm fine, Sam," Dean had replied, "I'm just sitting here, enjoying the sunshine." Idly, he noticed that Sam even had his hair in a bun under the nurse's cap._

"_Cluck cluck cluck cluck CLUCK, Dean, cluck cluck cluck out here!" scolded Sam, glaring at him with Henface #2™ (Cluck Cluck Clucking Cluck, Dean, Cluck!)_

"_I am resting," Dean told him, as Rumsfeld's three puppies came charging around a corner, their squabbling turning to delighted yipping when they found a human at ground level. Laughing, he rassled with them briefly, until they all suddenly ran out of energy, in the way puppies do, and curled up around him to go to sleep. "See? We're all resting." He settled himself comfortably under the tree, watching the sky. Jimi curled into his side with his head resting on Dean's shoulder. Janis and Joni cuddled against his leg. _

"_Cluck it, Dean, cluck cluck cluck unhygienic cluck cluck cluck!" Sam scratched irritably at the ground with his feet as Rumsfeld came wandering along, looking for her wayward litter. Satisfied that they were in safe hands, she flopped down beside Dean with a contented humph, and he put an arm around her._

"_You should try this, you know," Dean sighed, feeling strangely comfortable, "Since you don't ever get any human contact, you might try dog contact. Those Cuddle Party weirdos might be onto something – it feels very therapeutic. Probably because I'm using actual puppies for my Puppy Pile."_

"_Cluck, Dean, cluck cluck cluck CLAAAARK cluck cluck!"_

"_I'll nap out here. I'm comfy. Dude, you do know you're turning into a giant chicken?"_

_Sam left with a very Samesque huff – how does a giant chicken go huff, Dean wondered – and a parting shot of Henface #7™ (Go Cluck Yourself, Dean), his annoyed feather-fluffing making his little nurse's cape flap adorably. Flap-flap, flap-flap... Dean grinned down at his canine companions. The pups were snoozing, and Rumsfeld rested her chin on his arm. He stroked her grey-flecked head affectionately and put his other arm around Jimi, and let his eyes close – nobody, NOBODY, would ever get him to admit it, but puppy cuddles were pretty awesome. And if his brother ever teased him about it, he'd turn him into the biggest pot of Sam Noodle Soup the world had ever seen._

He woke up slowly, stretching and yawning and smiling. Puppy cuddles were awesome...

He realised with a jolt that the scruffy head cuddled comfortably into his shoulder might've been Jimi's, but it no longer qualified as a puppy cuddle.

"Aaaaaaaargh! Naked Guy Kid Hug!" he gurgled, trying to twitch away.

This proved to be impossible, as his other arm was tangled in a trench coat, because it was hugging Castiel, who sat looking down at him with a serious expression.

"AAAAAAAAARGH! Clothed Angel Hug!" he yodelled, jerking back in the opposite direction.

"Dad!" trilled Jimi happily, kissing him on the nose.

"Good Morning Dean," said the clothed angel.

"Kid! Angel! Personal! Space!" he yowled, extricating himself from the tangle of bedclothes and limbs.

"My apologies, Dean," said Castiel gravely, "But might I point out that it was in fact you who initiated physical contact..."

"What are you doing cuddling me?" demanded Dean, looking around for his jeans.

"You were actually cuddling him, bro," Sam pointed out from where he sat on his bed, pecking, _yes, pecking_, at his laptop, "He wasn't doing anything. Except sitting there. Watching you sleep. With that intense, eye-sex stare he does at you..."

"Gah! Pervy angel!" raged Dean, "You're still Doing It, Cas! Stop doing the pervy angel look!" He turned to his brother. "What were you doing while the Angel of Pervsday was Doing It?"

"I didn't want to interrupt," Sam answered, "Because you didn't seem to mind..."

"Sam is correct," Castiel cut in, "I did not wish to disturb your sleep. You were having a pleasant dream..."

"Pervy angel is pervy!" growled Dean. "What have I told you about watching my dreams? What, like you can't get cable in Heaven?"

"I did not, as you put it, 'watch your dreams'," the angel corrected him, "I was able to ascertain that you were having an enjoyable dream from your expression and vocalisations..."

"Oh, you are so creepy," moaned Dean.

"... and that it was in no way erotic, because your expressions and vocalisations during... Special Dreams are distinctive, which is something of a relief because at one stage you addressed me as 'Rumsfeld'..."

"I am going to smash your harp..."

"... And I'm afraid that your stroking my vessel's thigh like that had a rather unfortunate if predictable physiological effect, which might be considered inappropriate in the presence of a minor..."

"...And pull feathers out of your wings..." squeaked Dean.

"Do you wanna see the picture, bro?" Sam asked him brightly, turning his laptop around. The wallpaper showed a picture of Dean, beautiful smile on his sleeping face, with Jimi snuggled into his shoulder, a happy look of contentment in his big brown eyes. Dean's other arm went around Castiel – the angel sat watching over the two of them, wearing a patented Guardian Angel On Duty expression, in a tableau that just cried out to be put on a Hallmark card with a caption intimating that your guardian angel was keeping watch over you, so sorry to hear about the diagnosis of colon cancer.

"Get clucked, Chicken Man," Dean told him, eliciting a confused expression from his brother.

"Wingsman!" cried Jimi, throwing himself at Castiel for a body-slamming hug and a big sloppy kiss.

The angel regarded him seriously. "Good morning, Jimi," he said gravely. "I believe I have addressed the matter of your displays of affection before now."

Jimi cocked his head sideways, and kissed Castiel again. Castiel frowned.

"As I have intimated to you in your proper canine form, I do not wish to be licked by you," he told the teen, "As a human, it is appropriate for you to shake hands. Indeed, as a dog it is appropriate for you to shake hands. Having your saliva go up my vessel's nose is quite uncomfortable, and your habitual demonstration of affection via crotch-sniffing and... attempting to become intimate with my leg will be completely inappropriate while you are in a human form, in fact such an act would be construed in this culture as an illegal act with an underage child on my part..."

"What Cas is trying to say," Sam translated, "Is that humans don't greet each other the way you usually greet him."

"That is not strictly true," Cas interrupted, "As I am sure you are aware, expressions of friendliness between Dean and his lady friends often include episodes of..."

"Actually, I try to remain as ignorant as possible," Sam cut him off quickly, "But you should shake Castiel's hand, Jimi."

Jimi looked disappointed, but stuck out his hand obediently. "Hello, Wingsman," he intoned mournfully.

"Why are you here, Cas?" asked Sam.

"Dean sent me a message regarding Jimi's unfortunate transformation," answered the angel. He turned to Dean. "Although it nearly didn't get through to me. Danael in Reception says that the next time you send a prayer tainted with the stench of recent fornication, she will personally give you a smiting you will not forget in a hurry. She mentioned something about 'tying a knot in it'. I am uncertain what she meant, but her tone was extremely menacing. In future, it would be prudent to cleanse body and mind of carnal influences before sending me any messages."

Dean groaned. "Okay, you've creeped me out and threatened me with genital origami," he said in a pained voice, "But now you're here, thank you for coming - can you have a look at Jimi, and see what you think?"

Castiel cocked his head and studied Jimi. "Your message said he was bitten by a werewolf, and afterwards manifested as a human of equivalent developmental age."

"We think that's what caused it," said Sam, filling the angel in on the Jimi's transformation. Castiel listened with an intent expression. "Can you, um, turn him back into himself?"

Castiel frowned thoughtfully. "No," he answered, "I do not believe so. Jimi and his sisters are unlike anything that has walked the Earth before. They carry the heritage of The Pit, but are mortal. Hellhounds have occasionally bred with mortal bitches before, but Jimi Senior was... uniquely influenced by Dean's recasting of his mind and body. He was a one-off on this Earth. And he certainly creates his own brand of... excitement in Heaven..."

"He still causing trouble?" asked Sam in a worried voice.

"The Guardian of Companions speaks glowingly of him," answered the angel, "She uses words like 'boisterous', 'ebullient' and 'frisky'. He has become great friends with Francis of Assisi – since Fra Francis taught him to play Fetch, there have fewer... unfortunate incidents."

"That's my boy," grinned Dean.

"I will make some enquiries," Castiel returned to the subject, "And return as soon as I can."

"That would be great, Cas," Dean said, "Provided you stay out of my dreams, my thoughts, my bed and my personal space."

"Very well," agreed Castiel. "Goodbye. Goodbye, Jimi."

"Bye, Wingsman!" called Jimi cheerfully as the angel disappeared in a flap of trench-coat.

"Jimi, why do you call Castiel 'Wingsman'?" asked Sam curiously.

Jimi looked nonplussed. "Because he has wings, Uncle Sammy," he answered in some confusion.

Dean stared at him. "You mean, you can see his wings?" he asked.

"Of course, Dad," replied Jimi, "It's how I know it's him."

"Well, animals are a lot more perceptive than humans in many ways," Sam theorised, "Maybe this is just another case of that, turbo-boosted with Jimi's, er, supernatural ancestry."

"Yeah," mused Dean. "Jimi, what are Cas's wings like?"

Jimi appeared to give the question some thought. "They're very... wingy," he pronounced, satisfied with his conclusion.

"Well, on that incredibly informative description, let's go eat," suggested Sam, pulling on his shoes.

"Good idea. I need food. Lots of it. Plenty of carbohydrate to settle my nerves after such a rude awakening," grumbled Dean. "Get dressed, Jimi."

"Oh, Daaaaaaaad..."

"No get dressee, no get baconee," Dean stipulated, fossicking for clean socks in his bag. "The sooner we get him turned back Sam, the better – he's only been a teenager for a day or so, and he's far too good at it for my liking."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"I'm gonna have to head off to the library," decided Sam, glaring at his laptop, "The papers are only archived online from when they swapped their production and printing over to digital format. Not now, Jimi."

"Play!" chirped Jimi, squeaking his pig toy, hanging over Sam's shoulder and butting him with Oinker Stoinker.

"Jimi, I'm busy," he rebuffed the teen distractedly, "If I'm going to check out the possibility of potential werewolf attacks further back than the current generation, I'll need to go through the originals."

Jimi jumped on the sofa. "Play! Play! Play!" he chanted.

"Jimi, we're busy, not now," reiterated Dean, looking over his map. "If you can get me dates, I can check Births, Deaths & Marriages records. If this is a family thing, we might get lucky – disappearances following attacks could well be Hunters dealing with previous werewolves... Jimi, I said no!"

Jimi stopped bouncing, and huffed like Uncle Sammy. "Daaaaaad," he whined, "I'm boooored!"

"I'll have to get over to the Town Hall," continued Dean, consulting the second laptop, "They don't have..."

"WALK!" barked Jimi excitedly, "WALK! Let's go for a walk! WALK! WAAAAAALK!"

"Jimi!" Dean bent a stern eye on the teen, "I said no, young man! Now, calm down, and be quiet! That's an order!"

Jimi subsided, looking crestfallen. "I submit," he said sadly.

Sam turned to him. "Jimi, we're casting for the Hunt," he explained, "Looking for information the way humans do, to see if we can work out who the werewolf might be, so we can stop him before he hurts anybody else. We have to do this. It's our job. This is what our pack does."

"This is the way of things," acknowledged Jimi in a resigned tone.

"Yes, it is," agreed Sam. "We can't play now. And soon we'll have to go ranging. To human places. You'll have to go with Dean – Dad – and you'll have to be quiet, and amuse yourself quietly. It's the way of things. Understand?"

"Yes, Uncle Sammy," said Jimi obediently.

"So, you practise keeping yourself amused quietly for now," Dean told him, "And when we go out, you'll have it down pat, and when you're grown up you'll be really good at it, okay?"

"Yes, Dad," repeated Jimi in his obedient tone.

"Good boy," Dean added, getting a small smile from the teen. He turned back to the map. "Like I was saying, they don't have certificates online... is the messager working on this thing?"

"I don't know," said Sam, "Has it locked up again since it froze during your last messaging ...fiasco?" He glared at his brother, and raised his hands. "Hey, I am NOT touching that keyboard unless you've swabbed it in disinfectant and put it through an autoclave, you cyber-weirdo."

"Really, I thought you'd be please I was attempting to embrace the possibilities of the electronic age," sighed Dean in a put-upon fashion.

"The 'electronic age' was not what you were 'embracing', bro..." said Sam primly.

"Don't knock it 'til you try it Sam – she was an English lecturer, had a real way of making pictures with words, oh yeah..."

"You are beyond disgusting, Dean."

"You could look at pictures of famous libraries around the world, you know, just put a sock on the door and I'll go somewhere else for a while..."

"Dean..."

"Some of those places in Britain, ohhhhh, the priceless 16th century manuscripts, the flying buttresses, the gargoyles with tongues that go all the way down to here..."

"Dean..."

"You can have the lotion."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Whilst the Winchesters were planning their research approach to identifying the werewolf – Dean spread his maps out on his bed, and Sam attempted to set up the second laptop without touching it - Castiel arrived again with a suitably wingy sound.

"AAAAARGH! Cas! Personal! Space!" yelped Dean. "Didn't we have this conversation just a few hours ago?"

"My apologies, Dean," the angel said gravely, "But might I point out that we are both fully dressed, and I am far enough away that you will have to roll towards me through some ninety degrees should you wish to embrace me..."

Dean muttered something under his breath.

"Any developments, Cas?" asked Sam, looking around for his small bottle of hand sanitiser.

"Unfortunately, no," Cas replied, "I endeavoured to seek information via the owners of some highly specialised kennels that breed Hunting dogs with bloodlines that can be traced back Hellhound matings, but to no avail. I am at a loss. I am sorry." He looked genuinely crestfallen. "If there is something else I can do to assist, I would be pleased to do so."

"Well, you could take Jimi for a walk, he's jumping out of his skin, let him run around and tire him out, while we hit the civic records," suggested Dean, rolling through some ninety degrees, but in the other direction.

"Very well. I shall take Jimi for some exercise for you."

Sam looked up in surprise. "Aren't you needed in Heaven?"

"I can tend to certain... administrative matters while supervising Jimi," Castiel assured them.

Dean grinned. "So, they got wireless roaming in Heaven. Who knew? Jimi will be pleased anyway, won't you, fella?" He looked around. "Er, Jimi? Sam, where is he?"

"He's in the bathroom," Sam announced.

"I'll give him the good news, then," Dean said, rolling off his bed.

"Best just wait until he comes out, bro," Sam warned him. Dean looked confused; Sam nodded towards the bathroom door.

There was a sock on the doorknob.

Sam grinned as Dean blanched. "He really is just like you."

"Right, er, I'll just, I'll just wait until he comes out, Cas," Dean stuttered, handing some cash to the angel. "You remember how this stuff works? Good. Just let him, let him run around at the park, play football if he meets his friends again, go walking around, try to remind him to behave as much like a human as he possibly can..."

"It would be good for him to talk to other kids, if he can," Sam reminded them, "Our eyes and ears with the right crowd."

"... He has a phone, I've shown him how to answer it, he has a card with my contact details on it, he knows what do to if he gets lost, I'll get you a phone with me and Sam and Bobby on speed dial, don't feed him too much candy, he has trouble drinking out of a glass but seems to be okay with a bottle, for God's sake don't let him try coffee, he likes pie, bring him straight back here if he gets soaking wet, remember to grab a double handful of napkins if you decide to go for ice-cream..."

"Dean," said Castiel, laying a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder, "Jimi may be immature and excitable, but he has a good heart. He is, as you point out to him, a good boy. I am an Angel of The Lord. I have faced the Minions of Perdition, and defended the Throne of Heaven through civil war." He drew himself up, and suddenly looked stern and imposing. "I am sure I am capable of supervising Jimi – how difficult could it possibly be?"

* * *

Reviews are the Socks on the Doorknob Of Life.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"Don't you like pie?" asked Jimi, cocking his head.

"I do not require nutrition; my Grace sustains my human vessel," answered the angel. "Do not talk with your mouth full."

"Apologies, Wingsman," Jimi looked contrite and obediently chewed and swallowed with his mouth closed.

"As per your Alpha's – your Dad's – instructions, you should address me as 'Cas'," instructed his babysitter, "A friend of your family, an accountant with Asperger's syndrome, visiting this place with you for the purpose of undertaking man-time activities. We must avoid attracting attention."

"Yes, Cas." Jimi scooped up another spoonful. "What is a wingsman doing Hunting with my Alpha?"

"That is a long story," Castiel told him, "Which you would probably not be able to understand."

Jimi accepted this without comment. "How does he know you?"

"I am the one who found him and raised him from the deepest pit of Hell," Castiel said.

Jimi regarded him seriously. "Is that where he met my sire?"

"No," Castiel replied, "Your sire – Jimi Senior – was summoned by Dean."

"Did you meet him?" Jimi wanted to know.

"Yes. He jumped on me, licked me, and behaved in a totally inappropriate fashion. He invaded my personal space. His saliva went up my vessel's nose. Your appearance and behaviour in your true form are remarkably similar to his, although I believe you may eventually grow larger than his Earthly form was."

"He died before I was whelped," Jimi noted matter-of-factly.

"He did. He died protecting his Alpha, your Alpha, on a Hunt."

"I will do that, one day, when I am an Elder," Jimi stated knowingy, as if commenting on the weather, as he shovelled another spoonful of pie into his mouth.

Castiel gave the teen a look of fondness. "Yes," he agreed, "Because you are a Hunter's dog, and it is the way of things. But not for many years yet."

Jimi gave Castiel a happy smile, and the waitress came to collect his plate. "Hello!" he chirped to her.

"Hello again, Jimi," smiled Rachel the waitress, "How's that Dad of yours?"

"He's doing stuff with Uncle Sammy, and Cas is walking me," he told her.

"Does he know how much you're eating?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Dean is aware of his... son's propensity to eat desserts, and has given his permission," Castiel announced. "He may have as much hot chocolate or juice as he wishes, provided he makes an honest effort to drink it properly with tipping it into the saucer to be a last resort, but coffee is forbidden, and alcohol naturally is not permitted as that would be illegal, although considering the amount of intoxicating drink that Dean himself routinely consumed at this age I was surprised at how adamant he was on that point."

"Well, we all want our kids to be better behaved than we were," she commented.

Castiel considered this. "It would be difficult for him to behave worse," he pronounced. She laughed as she took Jimi's crockery.

"Dad mated with her, last night," Jimi told him.

"Yes, I know," Castiel answered.

"How?" asked Jimi, head cocked in curiosity.

"Your Alpha and I share a profound bond," Castiel told him, "I am able to be aware of his thoughts if I choose to do so. Usually I try very hard not to be, as he does not like it, especially during..."

"Special Time?" suggested Jimi.

"Yes. Exactly. Especially during Special Me-Time, or Special Cuddles, or even Special Dreams."

Jimi humphed resignedly. "It's hard not to notice when he's having Special Time, isn't it?"

Castiel wasn't that surprised at Jimi's perceptiveness – after all, the kid was a dog, and half-hellhound at that. "It is indeed difficult to ignore," he commiserated, "When he has such a tendency to think very hard about what he's doing during Special Times."

"There's no mistaking those noises," said Jimi gloomily, "And the scent he sheds, sometimes for hours beforehand, how Uncle Sammy can sleep through it I don't understand."

"Mentally he does the equivalent of shouting at the top of his voice," the angel confided.

"What? 'Look At Me, I'm Alpha And I'm Mating And It's Awesome!'?" queried Jimi.

Castiel considered that. "Not exactly in those words," he replied carefully, "But the sentiment is very much as you suggest."

"No wonder Uncle Sammy doesn't mate at all," stated Jimi sympathetically.

"That is not the reason your Second – Uncle Sammy – does not seek out women for casual sexual encounters," Castiel tried to explain. "Human males, human packs, work differently to packs as you understand them."

"I don't understand them at all," Jimi sighed, "Being an Upright is very complicated. Dad can mate whenever he wants, Uncle Sammy could but he doesn't want to… I wasn't allowed to go with him," Jimi added, with a touch of disappointment.

"That would not have been appropriate," frowned the angel. "It is unfortunate enough that Dean is an unrepentant fornicator; he most certainly should not be exposing a child to that sort of conduct."

"I'm not a Pup any more, I'm a Young," Jimi stated, with a trace of defiance. "I'm nearly an Elder. But I'm not allowed to mate." He practically pouted.

"It is best that you do not," Castiel told him. "You are half-Hellhound. There is no way to predict how your heritage would manifest if you sired offspring."

"There were female Young Uprights watching the pack play yesterday," Jimi said, "They were assessing the pack as we had play. They were healthy, and smelled receptive." He looked hopefully at the angel.

Castiel's usual demeanour did not betray any of the sudden spike of alarm he felt. "Mating while you are an Upright would be most unwise," he stated firmly.

"Why?" asked Jimi, coming perilously close to whining.

Castiel was quite proud of himself for the creative, tell-the-truth-and-nothing-but-the-truth-just-not-the-whole-truth explanation he gave. "Human packs, families, work differently," he said gently, "If a female Young mates before she leaves her dam's den, she may still be old enough to get in whelp - her sire and dam may become very angry, and drive her out before she is ready to fend for herself."

Jimi looked horrified. "Her pack would drive her out of the den before she is ready to leave?" he whispered, shocked.

"Yes," Castiel looked solemn. "With human packs, it is the way of things."

"But... what of her pups?" asked Jimi worriedly. "Without her dam and her litter-sisters to help raise them..." Castiel said nothing, looking at him in grim silence.

"Apologies, Win – Cas," said Jimi in a small voice, "I didn't know. I will not mate while I am Upright."

"You are a good boy," Castiel assured him, getting another smile, "Would you like to go to the park now?"

"Park! Play!" cried Jimi happily.

"I shall take that as assent," said Castiel.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Jimi was running around at the park, scuffing through piles of leaves and discovering with delight that an Upright body could climb trees after the squirrels (although it was too heavy to follow them very far along branches) when the pack of Young Uprights he'd met the previous day turned up again. Two of the boys called to him, and ran over.

"They are offering play, Cas," relayed Jimi, wiggle-dancing a little and turning on the Sammy Eyes. "They told me I am good at football, and their packmate has not come today either. Can I play?"

"Of course," Castiel said, smiling slightly, "Outdoor exercise is beneficial for maturing humans, and team activities teach co-operation. Remember your Dad's instructions."

"Gratitude, Cas!" Jimi yelled, already running off to join the pack, some of them greeting him as he arrived. According to some intricate protocol Castiel could not understand, two teams formed, and a game began.

He sat on a bench and watched for a while, marvelling anew at the simple joy of his Father's young creations, laughing and shouting and squabbling and inexplicably jumping on each other, which they apparently enjoyed very much, even the one on the bottom of the heap. Their conduct made no sense to him: surely possession of the ball could be more efficiently shared amongst them without resort to such physical exertions, perhaps by making an alphabetical list of names and allotting an agreed time interval to each individual to hold the ball, but they were experiencing healthful aerobic exertion and would hopefully avoid any injuries of serious consequence…

He allowed his mind to wander, and did what Dean would no doubt describe as 'tune in to Angel Radio'; although perhaps 'checking his messages' might have been a closer analogy. Not satisfied with threats to rearrange Dean's private anatomy, Danael had made a formal complaint about Dean Winchester and the tone and content of his messages, and was asking for a transfer out of Reception until he was dead, or at least until such time as Castiel mastered the mobile phone. The Guardian of Companions had left him a courtesy heads-up about Jimi Senior: he'd decided to play Fetch with the Staff of Moses, however Fra Francis had persuaded him to relinquish it before any real damage was done, although the teethmarks were probably permanent. A very formal, very strongly worded and above all very legal-sounding communique had been received from The Pit, demanding custody of George Carlin immediately, to wit ipso facto ominous dominus… Castiel smiled inwardly – they'd been griping about the quality of the Damned ever since they'd gleefully anticipated a nice, juicy inrreverant comedian, and gotten Tammy Faye Bakker instead. He marked it mentally as something to ignore; threatening letters in legalistic jargon from Hell weren't really a surprise, considering how many lawyers they had Down There…

He sat otherwise just enjoying the day, taking a moment to appreciate his Father's work. The football game was still in full swing when he realised that two people, neatly dressed young men, were approaching him.

"Hello," the greeted him in a friendly fashion, "Isn't it a glorious day?"

"It is," he smiled back at them, "I am enjoying the sunshine."

"May we sit down with you?" asked one of the young men.

"Of course," he said politely, making room on the bench.

"They look like they're having fun," said the other young man, indicating the football game in progress.

"I do not understand any of it," Castiel confessed, "But I am pleased to see them taking healthy exercise in a friendly context, rather than participating in iniquitous behaviour that sadly tempts so many young people into sin." He could not help but shoot a disapproving look at the gaggle of girls of the same age, watching the game, chatting and giggling among themselves.

"Oh, that's so true," nodded one of the young men, "In fact, we're out today, meeting people, and talking to them about sin."

Castiel sat up, interested – this was definitely a subject on which he could hold an informed conversation. "I would be pleased to talk about sin with you," he said eagerly.

"That's wonderful!" smiled the other young man. "I'm Robert, and this is Cody."

"Hello, Robert and Cody," Castiel nodded to each of them. "I am Castiel."

"How do you do," said Robert politely. "Castiel, may I ask you: have you been… Saved?"

Castiel considered the question carefully. "Yes," he answered finally, with a serious mien, "I have definitely been saved."

"How wonderful!" Cody told him, "So, you know Jesus Christ as your personal Saviour?"

Castiel looked thoughtful. "No," he answered truthfully. "I suspect that I was saved by my Heavenly Father on two occasions. And once by my friend Dean, whose actions and friendship prevented me from becoming a cynical wreck abusing the temple of my vessel, well, my body it would have been, really, with pharmaceutical substances and rampant fornication. Although I was tempted into inebriation on one occasion," he added, not wanting to gloss over his own shortcomings in any way. "There wasn't much tempting required," he finished, feeling that it was important to take responsibility for his transgression.

Both Cody and Robert were looking at him with strange expressions. "Er, well," Robert began, "We're talking to people about our faith today," he proffered a book, "And sharing Holy Writ with those who would be Saved."

Castiel looked confused, but took the book carefully, opening it to the first page. "Book of Mormon," he read. Recognition dawned in his eyes. "Ah. Oh. Oh dear. This again." He turned a perplexed expression to the two young men, and sighed. "Well, I really do not have anything pressing to do," he admitted, holding his hand out in the air and calling forth a fountain pen loaded with red ink, "So, let us make a start…" he frowned at the close-printed text, then examined his pen. After a moment's thought, he waved it briefly and gave it a much finer nib. "Now, to begin with, there never was any such angel as 'Moroni'. If this man Smith was not delusional or just wildly imaginative and mischievous, I suspect that one of my older brothers might in fact have been playing a trick – making a name out of the word 'moron' is just the sort of thing that Gabriel would find funny…"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"TWEEEEEEEEET!" yelled one of the footballers, "Time, and it's victory to the red shirts!"

"Bullshit!" called another with a disgusted expression, "We totally kicked your asses!"

"My Dad says the guys in the red shirts always end up dead," Jimi contributed.

"Dude, that's so true," said the second speaker, "See? We won."

More good-natured squabbling about final scores ensued. Jimi felt happy – it was just like the rough and tumble of play with his litter-sisters, with no real anger or malice beneath the argument. The females who had been watching the pack play wandered over – he thought it was strange that they did not play too, but kept quiet about it. Perhaps this was just one more way that human packs differed from canine ones.

"You're all idiots, you know that?" one of them smiled, putting her arm around the waist of the male who had called time, and doing that 'kissing' thing he'd seen his Alpha do. He experienced a sudden alarm as their posture and scents clearly signalled an intention to mate. _What would happen if she got in whelp?_ They both seemed receptive to each other. Maybe they had some understanding, although for Uprights they seemed very young to make a den of their own…

"… my place, while the 'rents aren't around," the second boy was saying, "We can hang out, what do you say? How about you, Jimi?"

"Me? Come back to your… place?" Jimi thought about it. They were clearly offering further play, and Dad had told Castiel to let him run around with the pack of Young if he had the opportunity. "I might just have to ask Cas," he said cautiously.

"Aw, man, it looks like he's having his own fun," another boy observed with a grin, nodding in the direction of the bench on which Castiel sat hunched over the book on his lap, occasionally pausing to lecture the cowering would-be missionaries on a particularly grievous error.

"Is he _correcting_ their book?" asked one of the females incredulously.

"That is so cool!" laughed another. "Your friend's awesome, Jimi."

Jimi considered the scene: Wingsman was clearly busy, talking to other Elders. His expression, posture and gestures showed that he was doing something important.

With a small sigh of relief, he realised that he knew what he was supposed to do: find a way to amuse himself without interrupting.

"He is busy," Jimi announced, "So I will come to your place, and not disturb him."

"Awesome!" said the boy who had brought the ball to play – Adam, he had said his name was – "Hey. let's go."

"Let's get pizza!" said one of the other boys.

"Pizza is awesome!" said Jimi. "I have money," he fished the cash Castiel had given to him out of his pocket. "Can we get bacon?"

"Yeah, we'll get meat-lovers," Adam decided, "Come on."

Jimi wasn't sure what that meant, but he knew he loved meat, and it sounded good. With a glance backward to check on Castiel – he was still busy – he followed Adam and the rest of the Young pack, feeling very obedient and grown-up and self-sufficient. He smiled a little to think what his Alpha would say when he found out how good he'd been.


	11. Chapter 10

...and for Grace, includes a very brief note on what became of Robert and Cody...

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 10**

"No, no, and no," muttered Castiel, pursing his lips and wielding The Red Pen Of Heavenly Correction like a sword as Robert and Cody clutched at each other in a bemused daze, "There were no horses in the Americas at that time, the genus of _Equus_ that did evolve was extinct by the end of the Pleistocene..." he made a note in the margin, "...And the next horses arrived with the Spaniards... likewise elephants. Mastodons did live in the New World, but were extinct by the end of the last Ice Age..." he underlined the offending words. "Also goats, introduced as domesticated animals in the 15th century...further, there were no wheeled vehicles in Mesoamerica, much of the terrain being totally unsuited to such a mode of transport... now, as to the anachronisms concerning metallurgy and metalworking technologies, I think you'll find these particularly interesting..."

If he was honest, he was enjoying himself. If he had not been created a Warrior of Heaven, Castiel thought, he would have enjoyed being a teacher, bringing knowledge and enlightenment to the ignorant. There was a gratifying satisfaction in this, imparting wisdom. It gave him a feeling of achievement.

"Er, Castiel?" ventured Robert in a meek voice, raising his hand.

"...Because although primitive smithing of some metals did exist in Mesoamerica... yes, Robert?" Castiel nodded encouragingly at him, like a teacher taking a welcome question from a shy student.

"Um, it's getting dark," Robert pointed out, as Cody clung to his arm and nodded vigorously in agreement. "We, er, we were expected back, er, some time ago..."

Castiel looked up from the book, a tinge of disappointment on his face. "Oh, that is a shame," he said regretfully, "We have not even started on the linguistic inconsistencies, and some of those are really fascinating."

"Oh, dear, what a pity," trilled Robert, "But, um, we really must be going."

Castiel handed the book back to Robert. "I have very much enjoyed our discussions today," he told them, "Thank you."

"Er, yes, thank you, Castiel," Robert and Cody backed away slowly.

What decent young men, thought Castiel. Perhaps next time he had some time to spare, he could seek them out, and continue their discussion...

He looked up at the sky and realised that a number of hours had passed. He looked around, and saw that the group of teenagers Jimi had been playing with were nowhere in sight.

He wasn't surprised – Jimi must have gotten hungry, and followed his nose back to the Winchesters' motel room. It was good of him to have done that without disturbing Castiel. Dean did not give the boy enough credit for trying to behave appropriately.

"I must find my young companion," he told them gravely. "Goodbye." With a flap of his wings, which he didn't bother to hide in front of two obviously devout and God-fearing men, he disappeared.

When Robert was able to get Cody to stop screaming later that evening, they decided that what they had experienced that afternoon was clearly a shared hallucination and the most likely cause was that the little old lady they'd visited earlier had baked marijuana into the brownies she served to them. That, or global warming. (Nonetheless, three years later Robert had joined a cloistered order of Carthusian monks in Northern France, and Cody went to live on a kibbutz then later became a retro-beat poet to a new generation of acid heads, experimenting with mind-altering plant extracts and breeding prize-winning show chickens, his favourite and most highly awarded animal being a rooster named Sam.)

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"So, that narrows it down to three possibilities," concluded Sam, leaning back and stretching, "Anderson, Bierman or Keller."

"Which gives us... five possible premises," Dean noted, as he flipped through the phone directory. "Can we eliminate these two as being grandparents? The initials match up with people in their sixties."

"Probably not a safe assumption," Sam suggested, "If this has been a generational thing, the older family home might be where the, er, containment facilities were established."

"Damn, you're right," Dean sighed. "Okay, so five houses to scope out, and hope we don't get caught out by Junior sneaking up on us, or going out for a snack on the other side of town." His stomach rumbled. "I wish Cas and Jimi would get back, I don't like ganking on an empty stomach."

"Oh no, we can't have you fainting from lack of food during a fight," intoned Sam dramatically, looking at his watch. "It is getting kind of late, maybe you should call Cas..."

He was cut off by the flapping that heralded the appearance of Castiel. The angel materialised sitting far too close to Dean on the sofa for the latter's comfort.

"Oh, God, Cas," he groaned, "I'm just not getting through to you, am I? What's Enochian for 'personal space'?"

"Do not take my Father's name in vain, Dean," Castiel told him with a frown, "Your fornication is transgression enough without blaspheming. And there is no translation of 'personal space' in Enochian, as there is no such concept for angels..."

"No frigging kidding," Dean grumped, "Come on, Jimi, let's ditch Pervy Angel and go eat."

"Er, Cas," began Sam, "Where_ is_ Jimi?" Dean's head snapped around.

"What do you mean, where is..." he noticed the absence of a certain teenager. "Cas!" he barked, "Where _is_ Jimi?"

Castiel looked confused. "I do not understand," he answered, "When I noticed he was gone, I assumed that he had found his way back here..."

"Gone?" Dean echoed. "_Gone_? When you _noticed_ he was_ gone_? What do you mean, 'gone'?"

"Gone, as in 'not there any more'," Castiel replied. "I was correcting the most vexatious errors in a book for two young men while Jimi played football with his new friends – one of their group was apparently missing, and they asked him to join them – and when I looked up, he was gone."

"What book?" asked Sam.

"The book of Mormon," the angel explained, "I have encountered it before, and endeavoured to assist its adherents to identify the most obvious mistakes in the text."

"When you looked up..." Dean was open-mouthed with disbelief. "Cas, how long did you spend... assisting the Mormons?"

Cas cocked his head, and managed to look slightly sheepish. "There are many mistakes," he said, "It is not really something that can be completed in a single afternoon..."

"So, basically," summarised Sam, "You spent the afternoon correcting the book of Mormon while Jimi went... somewhere else."

Castiel considered this. "That would appear to be an accurate summation of the situation," he agreed.

"You lost Jimi?" Dean's eyes bugged. "I don't believe this, you took him out for a walk, and you _lost_ him?"

"No!" Castiel disagreed quickly, "I did not lose Jimi. I just... do not know where he is."

Dean was already dialling. "Come on, come on," he muttered, to no avail. "He's not answering the phone," he said grimly. "Cas, can you pick him up on angel radar?"

Castiel appeared to concentrate for a moment. "No," he announced, "I cannot determine his whereabouts. That may be due to your influence on his parentage."

Dean said something that was as anatomically improbable as it was blasphemous.

"Cas," Sam butted in, "Did you say earlier that Jimi was, what, filling in for someone when the kids started playing football?"

"He reported that one of their number had failed to arrive again," Castiel recalled.

Sam's face scrunched in thought. "Did he say something about a kid who didn't turn up, before?" he asked Dean. "When you were tearing him another one about getting out of the car, didn't he say he'd learned football, because they'd asked him to play, to make up numbers?"

Dean replayed The Lecture in his head, and groaned. "Oh, no," he said despairingly, "And I didn't even notice, I was so damned angry at him for disappearing like that, and arguing with me over the details of what I'd told him..." he turned to Castiel. "Did he mention a name, this kid who who's gone AWOL?"

"No," answered Castiel, "There was no name mentioned, I am sure of it."

Dean swore again, and picked up his keys. "Come on, Sam," he told his brother, "We gotta find him."

"How?" asked Sam, looking perplexed. "He could be anywhere!"

"Hey, it's vacation time, he's sixteen years old, hanging with a bunch of other teenagers," Dean explained, "If he's not home yet, all we have to do is find the party."

"Riiiight," said Sam dubiously, "And how do we find the party? That sounds disturbingly like a euphemism for something I really don't want to walk in on you doing, you know."

"Hey, I was sixteen years old once," Dean grinned. "You, not so much. Well, not a normal sixteen year old, anyway..."

"Yeah, 'cause growing up, we were both so normal..."

"What I mean is, I can find the party," Dean continued, heading for the door, "Call it an instinct, a talent, or just another aspect of being a Living Sex God. Somewhere in this town, a group of teenagers are partying, Sam – there will be music, there will be booze, and fuck me if there aren't girls as well – and we are going to find them." He looked at his watch again. "Preferably before moonrise."

"I am sorry, Dean," Castiel apologised sincerely, "I did not mean to... lose Jimi. I will keep watch for any sign of werewolf activity."

Dean sighed. "It's okay, Cas, if a teenager really wants to do something, they'll find a way to do it."

"We did discuss the hazards of him mating as a human," explained Castiel, "And I impressed upon him the importance of refraining from fornication. He was most attentive, and seemed genuinely resolved to abstain from iniquitous behaviour."

"Well, that's one less thing to worry about, I suppose," commented Sam.

"Oh, yeah," snarked Dean, "I remember getting that talk too. And appearing to pay attention. I think I even convinced Dad that I was listening to him."

"Dean, Jimi isn't you," Sam pointed out.

"Oh, yes he is!" countered Dean. "Have you looked at the kid? He looks just like me at that age; you said so yourself! He's a good looking guy, he's charming, he's got a double dose of the Chick Magnet gene through me via Jimi Senior – girls will throw themselves at him. He won't be able to bring himself to disappoint them."

"Gee, narcissism, much?" Sam rolled his eyes.

"False modesty sucks," Dean grumped, "Let's go."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Jimi was having a wonderful time. The music was very similar to what he was used to listening to in the Den, and there were lots of the crunchy treats that his Alpha loved to eat, and often shared with him. As Adam had suggested, they had obtained pizza, one of his favourite treats. He sat happily with a bowl of corn chips, listening to the other Young talk, constantly amazed at the complexity of their interactions.

One of Adam's other friends, Tony, had brought 'beer' from his sire's den. Jimi recognised the smell. His Alpha drank it all the time. He smiled as he accepted the bottle, and watched how the others twisted the tops off.

He took an experimental sip. It was cold and fizzy and delicious.

He swallowed a larger mouthful, and followed up with a large satisfied burp. This gained him a ragged round of cheers. So he did it again.

The female Young Uprights were particularly interesting. He found that he didn't have to talk to them very much, just listen to them talk, and they really liked that. Some of them were apparently paired with other males – he was quick to pick up on the subtle hostile cues the other males gave out when he was too close to one of their pair-bonds, and he made a point distancing himself from those females, no matter how much interest one of them might be showing. Why they'd be signalling receptiveness when they were already paired, he couldn't understand; he put it down to one more thing that Uprights, humans, did differently.

"Dude, did you just give Carla the brush-off?" asked Adam, mouth full of pizza, "She's hot!"

"She is paired with Tony," Jimi said simply, "She is not available."

"The way she was looking at you, she is _so_ available," Adam grinned.

Jimi looked down at the bottle in his hand. "Tony gave me beer," he said, "And Carla is paired with him."

Adam clapped him on the shoulder. "You, my man, are a class act," he pronounced. Jimi wasn't sure what that meant, but the tone was obviously one of approval, so he grinned back. "Heads up, dude," Adam continued, "Here comes the barracuda, careful what you let dangle in the water…"

Confused, Jimi turned to see a female Young approaching them. She was smiling, so he smiled back. "Hello," he greeted her.

"You're Jimi, right?" she asked him, smiling in a way that reminded him strangely of one of his sisters eyeing off one of the meaty bones their Dam-Alpha sometimes gave them, "I'm Barbara. I haven't said thank you for the pizza. I saw you playing football. You're really good."

"The others taught me how," Jimi told her, "It was fun."

"You haven't played before?" she looked surprised. "'Cause you look like the football team type." She moved closer, and put a hand on his arm. The scent of her receptiveness surprised him.

"I like to play," he said, watching her for a cue on what was expected of him.

"I'll bet you do," she purred, moving closer and putting an arm around his waist. The contact was kind of nice, he decided. He smiled at her, put his arm around her too. They wandered around like that for a while - he let her do the talking, which seemed to work so well in dealing with Upright females. Tony wandered past, giving him another beer, a smile and a thumbs up.

"The strong, silent type, huh?" Barbara smiled at him.

"I like listening to you talk," he told her. Her smile cranked up another notch. Unable to ignore her scent any longer, he inhaled deeply. "You smell really good," he added. Her posture shifted slightly, invitingly… he bent to her neck, and sniffed again. "Mmmmm," he rumbled happily, "Really good. Female. Healthy. Really good." She turned her head and kissed him.

He jumped, surprised. "Are you okay?" she asked him.

"Um," he answered, a bit flustered. "I'm not supposed to do that," he admitted.

"Oh, why ever not?" she pouted, "Don't you like kissing girls?"

"I haven't ever, um," he said. Her expression changed. Yes, now she definitely looked like Joni, standing over the bone after she'd wrestled it away from Janis…

"I find that hard to believe," she breathed in his ear, her scent overwhelming him. He jumped backwards.

"I can't mate with you!" he yelped. "You will get in trouble! Your family will be angry! I mustn't!"

She laughed. "Oh, is _that_ what you're worried about?" She took his hand, and drew him in close. "Carla's right, you are really sweet! Does your family belong to one of those weird churches?"

Jimi didn't understand all of what she meant, but he got the gist of it. "We are not a normal family," he admitted.

"Well, there are ways of avoiding me getting _in trouble_," she purred enticingly. He looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and interest.

Adam sauntered past, and muttered "Get a room, you two. Upstairs, first on the left."

"Thanks Adam." Barbara put her arm around Jimi. "Come on, Jimi, there's something you really should learn about."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Jimi was part Hellhound, beast of the Pit whence sprang all sin, including Lust.

Jimi was part Rottweiler, a working breed, developed and selected for the qualities of work drive, and an eager willingness to please. They are also intelligent, and quick learners.

Jimi was also, right now, part teenager.

And, of course, through Jimi Senior, part Dean Winchester.

So, what happened next?

Don't ask a question you don't want to know the answer to…

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"What exactly are we looking for, Dean?" asked Sam, peering out into the darkened street as Dean stopped the car.

"Listening, Sam, we're listening," his brother replied, staring at the ground and turning slowly in a circle. He looked up, as if scenting the air, turning his head in the still night…

"That way," he stated, pointing West. Sam cocked his head and could just make it out: the unmistakeable _doof doof_ of a stereo being made to earn its electricity.

They repeated this procedure several times, with a few false trails as the sound bounced around the streetscape. Dean was sure they were closing in, within a few blocks, when a sound came to them…

A howl.

It started low, in the bass baritone register, and gradually made its way into tenor.

An angry growl started in Dean's throat.

"Fuck," hissed Sam, "Is it the wolf out already?"

"No," scowled Dean, "Get in."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The group enjoying the impromptu party, and it was going off, were all known to each other, which is why the informal lookouts didn't pay much attention to the seriously cool classic muscle car that pulled up across the street – it didn't belong to anybody's parents and it wasn't a police cruiser, so it didn't register as a problem.

Even when a very angry-looking man got out of the driver's side and came stomping over, followed by a worried-looking giant with girl-hair, they were sufficiently buzzed on purloined beer not to be concerned.

It wasn't until they really got a look at his expression as the guy pushed past them, heading on in like he owned the place, that it dawned on them that this could mean trouble for somebody…

Sam spotted their quarry first, in the back yard, sitting on a low garden wall, with his arm around a giggling girl, his face buried in her neck, a bottle of beer dangling from the other hand, and he gasped in shock when the teen sat up, because suddenly he was maybe twelve years old and looking at his brother and really not knowing where to look…

For a moment, he thought that if he turned around, the man behind him would be his father, bellowing at his son in a voice like the wrath of gods…

"_JIMI WINCHESTER YOU GET YOUR SORRY ASS OVER HERE RIGHT NOW!"_

* * *

Hands up who thinks it would be awesome to get your fics beta-ed by Cas and his Red Pen Of Heavenly Correction?


	12. Chapter 11

Thank you, generous (if slightly demented) reviewers - I share my chocolate-coated internets with you. Do I detect a couple of guilty consciences? Surely, Gentle Readers, none of you have ever sneaked off to a party to consume copious amounts of alcohol or indulge in other iniquitous behaviour? You're all surfing the interwebs from the libraries of various abbeys and monasteries, aren't you?

**Chapter 11**

This is what was meant by the expression 'You could cut the air with a knife', decided Sam. Jimi sat in the back seat, apparently oblivious to Dean's seething, possibly because he had been drinking, or possibly because he didn't understand just what a shitload of trouble he was in.

The expression on Dean's face was one he hadn't seen since he'd argued with their father. Then, it hadn't been the least bit amusing, but on his brother's face? Fucking _priceless_.

Nonetheless, he carefully kept any trace of a smirk off his face, for a wise man once said: when a skunk is angry at someone else, do not sneak up behind it and poke it with a pointy stick for fun, for yea and verily at that moment is it's ass pointing in your direction...

Back at the motel, Sam sat on his bed, where he hoped he would be outside of the immediate blast radius, and waited with a detached interest to see what would happen: The Lecture, The Argument, or the Flat Out Explosion That Made Hiroshima Look Like A Disappointing Fart In A Rather Small Bathtub.

Dean stalked back and forth across the room, then paused to glare at Jimi. "So," he said quietly, menacingly, "Exactly how much have you had to drink?"

Jimi answered with a hearty burp followed by a small hiccup, listing gently to starboard where he sat.

"I see," Dean nodded. "So, would you care to explain to me, because I'm having some trouble understanding this, would you care to explain to me exactly what the hell you thought you were doing taking off with those kids?"

"Amusin' m'self," replied Jimi, with a smile and a slur, "Just like you tol' me, Alpha. When the Elderses busy, amuse m'self. Wingsesman was busy, talking with other Elders – he said I could go play, so I amused m'self." He appeared genuinely confused as to why Dean might be angry.

Dean's mouth opened and shut a couple of times. "Right, right," he mused, "So, taking off and not answering your phone, that seemed like a sensible thing to do, did it?"

Jimi looked puzzled. "I didn' hear the phone," he said, hiccupping again.

"No, I imagine you didn't," agreed Dean, "Because the music was loud, and your attention was elsewhere, apparently focused on licking that girl's pancreas clean, from the enthusiasm with which you had your tongue down her throat." He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Tell me, Jimi," he said, "Tell me that you didn't... mate with that girl I saw you with."

"No, Alpha!" Jimi said, radiating truthfulness, "I didn'! I didn' mate with her!"

Dean let out a breath he hadn't realised that he'd been holding. "Thank Christ for that..."

"That was Sally. I mated with Barbara," continued Jimi.

Sam let out a squeaking snort and turned it into a cough as Dean's head whipped around.

"You... mated... with a human girl?" he growled through his teeth.

"It will be all right, Alpha," Jimi told him with a reassuring smile, "There won' be any pups. Wingsesman said I mus' not mate, 'cos a female Young will be driven outta the den 'f she gets in whelp, an' I tol' her, an' she said..." his grin widened, "She said, 'Jimi there's something you have t' learn, an' she showed me... um... these..." he pulled a small square plastic packet from a pocket, and waved it triumphantly if somewhat uncoordinatedly, "An'... an'... an'... no pups!" he finished with a bright smile.

Dean stared open-mouthed at the teen in front of him, smiling, swaying gently and brandishing a condom like a prized concert ticket.

"It w's awesome!" he added enthusiastically.

Dean continued to stare.

"She enjoyed it too," continued Jimi, "She said so."

Dean was still staring.

"Both times," Jimi clarified.

Dean's mouth opened and shut, but nothing came out.

"I said thank you," Jimi assured him.

Sam let out another stifled squeak.

"D'you want one for nex' time you mate?" asked Jimi, proffering the small packet again, "She did thiz thing _– hic! –_ an' she put it in her mouth, an' she..."

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Dean burst out.

"S'okay, that bit's awesome too," Jimi reassured him, pressing the packet into one of Dean's hands. "You c'n use your hands if'n she can't do the thing..."

Sam face-planted into his pillow.

"We will discuss this in the morning," Dean rumbled dangerously, "When you will hopefully be more sober, and I will hopefully be less homicidal. Canicidal. Jimicidal. Possibly also Samicidal. Right after I get the holy oil, jam it so far up a certain Angel Of The Lord's ass that he has to change his name to Olive, pull every single feather out of his wings and jam them down his throat and set fire to him..."

As if on some cosmic cue, Castiel appeared with his usual flapping sound, standing too close to Dean.

Dean didn't bother with the niceties of complaining about the annexing of his personal space; he turned to the angel, curled his top lip and snarled.

Castiel jumped backwards.

Jimi hiccupped.

Sam wheezed with muffled laughter.

Castiel let out a sigh of relief when he saw Jimi. "It is reassuring to see that you have located Jimi," he announced, allowing himself a small smile. "There is no sign of werewolf activity in this town – the juvenile wolf must still be holed up, or made unwell by the silver. There will be no attacks tonight, and Jimi is back. All is well." He turned a satisfied expression towards Dean.

"Castiel," Dean said pleasantly, "May I borrow your angelic sword?"

Castiel cocked his head. "I would first like to know what use you intend to make of it," he answered.

"That's fair," agreed Dean. "I want to poke out your eyes, carve the word 'IDIOT' across your face, slit you from gut to throat, sign my initials on your liver, slice your heart into teeny tiny pieces then use the hilt to bash in your skull and turn your brain into a slurpee for underprivileged ghouls, then cut off your wings and make a feather duster." Dean held out his hand expectantly.

Castiel looked at him seriously. "Dean, why do want to wish to dismember my vessel and turn my wings into a cleaning utensil?" He looked down at Dean's hand. "And why are you offering me a contraceptive item?"

Dean glanced down, then threw the packet across the room. "It was given to me by Jimi," he hissed angrily, "Jimi, who you were supposed to be watching, because while you were busy with the remedial religion class, he wandered off to a party where he found himself a human partner who taught him aaaaaall about avoiding having puppies, and now thanks to your lecture, he thinks it's fine to go around screwing any girl who'll have him just so long as he doesn't get her pregnant!"

"An' she's not paired with an'body else," added Jimi seriously, waving a finger to emphasise the importance of his statement. "Even if'n she's receptive."

Castiel looked confused. "You fornicate with any woman who will have you," he pointed out.

"I'm not a teenager!" yelled Dean.

"But you were," Castiel told him, "You were younger than Jimi is, in this human form, when you experienced your first actual successful sexual penetration, and if you count the earlier unsuccessful attempts…"

"GAAAAAAAAH!" roared Dean, "CREEPY PERVY ANGEL!"

A fresh round of stifled shrieks of laughter emanated from Sam's pillow.

"…And Jimi has shown moral judgement in seeking to avoid engendering an unwanted pregnancy, or disrupting existing relationships," finished the angel. "He has tried to follow instructions. He has tried to be a good boy."

"I don't remember instructing him to get drunk," snarled Dean.

"You were routinely consuming alcohol, including hard liquor, at that age, despite your father's instructions to abstain," Castiel said reasonably.

Dean groaned, and sank to the sofa, putting his head in his hands. "Cas, you are not really helping, here, I mean, he's a kid! He's actually a _dog_, who's a kid! I don't know whether I'm an accessory to, to, to bestiality by deception here! I have to look after him, until we can turn him back into himself!" He looked up. "What if the werewolf had come after him?"

"It did not, Jimi is safe, and there was no harm done," Castiel reassured him. "While I do not condone casual fornication," he frowned briefly at both Jimi and Dean, "I thought you would be… pleased; he was a considerate partner, and was keen to ensure that the young lady involved enjoyed herself too."

"Oh, goody, that makes everything all right, then," sighed Dean. "Do I want to know how you know that?"

"He is… thinking very hard about it," confided Castiel. "Mentally shouting at the top of his voice. In much the same way you do. It is… very difficult to ignore whilst in such close proximity."

"Kill me now, somebody," Dean moaned. "Fuck, what am I supposed to do? Confiscate his squeaky pig? Ground him until he's forty - in dog years?"

Jimi grabbed him in a hug, and wiggle-danced a little. "It w's awesome, Dad," he sighed happily. He kissed Dean on the nose.

"Well, we can talk about this in the morning, okay?" sighed Dean. Jimi nodded. "Right now, you go have a shower – you stink like a whorehouse – and go to bed, while I go get some food for the Elders. And maybe some Tylenol for you, because you're going to need it." Jimi stood obediently, if a little unsteadily, and made his way to the bathroom.

"I must leave now," Castiel told them. "I will continue to search for any information relating to Jimi's situation when I can."

"Yeah, thanks Cas," said Sam, finally sitting up and clearing his throat again, "You've been a big help with the kid. No, really. We've tracked down three possible families, and we can probably take if from here." He glanced at Dean. "Provided surrogate fatherhood doesn't give Dean a heart attack."

"Being torn limb from limb by a crazed unnatural beast is starting to sound not so bad," muttered Dean, picking up his keys. He knocked on the bathroom door, and pushed it slightly ajar. "I want you cleaned up and snuggling under your blanket by the time I get back, and don't you move from that sofa, you understand?" he instructed.

"Yeah, Dad, yeah, ohhhhh, yeah…." came the breathy reply.

Sam smiled as Dean's face drained of colour.

"Nyaaaaaaarg," went Dean.

"He really is just like you," Sam beamed.

"I totally hate you," Dean scowled.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Sam noticed the gasping hitching noises before the sun came up, and decided that there would be fewer tears all around if Dean didn't have to deal with it. He made his way to the sofa. While Jimi had snored blissfully the previous night, he'd scrounged a bucket from a janitor's cupboard; now, he moved it with his foot, and positioned it under Jimi just as the teen's head emerged from under his blanket and dumped ballast.

Jimi glanced down, then looked up at Sam with big, sad brown eyes. "I'm not eating that," he declared, "It's all… mushy."

"No," Sam assured him, using one of the provocative wipes on Jimi's face, "I'll get rid of it."

"My stomach hurts," whined Jimi, flopping back to the sofa. "My head hurts."

"You have a hangover," Sam told him. "Humans can get sick after they drink alcohol – beer – and that's what's happening to you."

Jimi let out a whimper and retreated under his blanket. Sam fetched him some Tylenol and a bottle of water. "Is Alpha – Dad – angry at me?" he asked in a small voice, his eyes watery.

"I think he was mostly worried when we didn't know where you were," Sam reassured him. "You try to get some more sleep, okay?"

"Yes, Uncle Sammy," came the mournful reply. The tousled head emerged again. "He was angry that I mated with Barbara, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was, a bit," agreed Sam, "But he'll get over it."

"Oh." Jimi appeared to consider this. "Will he get over it if I tell him that I mated with Angela, too?"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The lump under the blanket hadn't emerged when the Winchesters were up after sunrise. Dean considered ordering him up and dragging him out for a walk, remembering the way his Dad had reacted to his first major hangover, but the face that emerged from under Jimi's blanket looked up at him with such big eyes in such a green face that he didn't have the heart to do anything except sit on the edge of the sofa to ask,

"How you doing there, kiddo?"

"Uncle Sammy says I am hanging over," Jimi answered quietly. "I think it must be because I am hanging over this bucket."

"Yeah, he told me," Dean let the language misunderstanding slide, "You feel pretty sick, huh?"

Jimi nodded miserably.

"I didn't mean to make you angry, Dad," he said, Sammy Eyes making Sam's most heart-wrenching expression look like he'd bitten a lemon by comparison.

"It's okay, Jimi," Dean reassured him, patting him on the head, which elicited a small smile. "You just stay there until you feel a bit better. Uncle Sammy will go out and get us some breakfast. You'll feel better if you can eat something." Jimi looked up at him hopefully. "What would you like to eat?"

"I can pick him up some crackers, and some juice or ginger ale, maybe," began Sam.

Jimi thought for a moment, then said plaintively, "Dad… bacon?"

Sam rolled his eyes in disbelief, while Dean grinned. "You know, Sam, I'm starting to think he really is just like me." He threw the keys to his brother. "Don't' just stand there, Francis, the carnivores are hungry. Go get us food before we decide to bring down a nice juicy plant-eater to drag back to our den and consume at our leisure."

"I hear and obey, O Alpha Of My Pack," acknowledged Sam, turning for the door.

He was halfway to the Impala when he heard two voices, remarkably similar, chorus "And pie!"

* * *

Pie for breakfast is wonderful. And therapeutic if you are feeling unwell, possibly a bit hungover. Not that I'd know, of course...


	13. Chapter 12

OMGWTFBBQ This thing has hit 80 reviews! You are all so naise, and encouraging, you make me feel loved and wanted *sniff*, I could almost forgive the wretches who keep aiming plot bunnies at me (you know who you are...) Apologies to elf about the Cheetos. Sorry (although it's probably cosmic comeuppance for the damned bunnies).

Whoever thought that Robert and Cody would win fans? Do they need a chapterlet at the end? This thing is already going to go past 40,000 words. Hopefully only one more chapter to go. Then I can get on with stomping those bunnies one at a time - I'm a slave to my OCD, and bunnies are like unpaired socks, THEY MUST BE DEALT WITH! So sure, yeah, go ahead, shoo as many as you like in my direction waves arms about, hell, send me bunnies for Easter, creepy evil demonic plot bunnies that stalk me day and night and crap sultanas and hide under my desk at work and ambush me when I'm trying to think about something work-related and go "squeek squeek squeek" and twitch their evil little noses and won't leave me alone until I write them down - to the sadistic mongrel who told me Castiel has to correct a 'Twilight' novel with his Red Pen Of Heavenly Correction, CURSE YOU! shakes fist I curse your bunny farm, and the camel you rode in on!

Ahem. I'll just take my meds and get on with it, shall I?

* * *

**Chapter 12**

"How you doin', J-Man?" Dean looked up from his burger.

Jimi looked up from his lunch, where he had managed to eat half of his peanut butter sandwich. "I think I am still hanging over, Dad," he confessed, looking so mournful that Dean couldn't help laughing.

"Let that be a lesson to you, Young," he intoned seriously, "Leave the drinking to your Elders."

"I submit," agreed Jimi readily.

"Yeah, right, Dean," commented Sam, nodding sagely, "Because you are such a paragon of self-control in the presence of alcohol, you would never get so drunk that you'd throw up..."

"Sam..."

"...Because you can hold your liquor, why, you hardly ever get so soused you end up singing to a cow, or trying to seduce a lamp post..."

"Sam..."

"... It's okay, Dean, I understand – it was a very attractive lamp post, and it was flashing its 'come hither' rivets at you, and that cow, man, she was hawt, I saw that udder..."

"Sam..."

"...And it's been at least a full calendar month since you danced around the room wearing your shorts on your head saying 'Behold the Living Sex God, cower before my awesomeness puny mortal'..."

"I'm warning you, Samantha..."

"...And God knows, you look so impressively manly and stoic on those occasions when you curl up under the bedclothes and hug your pillow and come out only to puke or make pitiful squeaking noises that, translated out of Deanese and into English, sound awfully like "Pleeeease bring me coffee, Sam, beloved sympathetic compassionate understanding brother I saved from fiery death as a baby, pleeeeeeease bring me coffee..."

"If you don't knock it off, one of these days you are going to wake up with a haircut that makes Patrick Stewart look like Donald Trump," growled Dean. He poked a French fry into the mustard on his plate. "So, what's our next move?"

"We check out the five places on our shit list," answered Sam, absent-mindedly pushing a handful of paper napkins at Dean, "And see if we can work out which one is harbouring a juvenile werewolf." He looked at Jimi. "If he's feeling up to it, getting Jimi to deploy his turbo-charged nose is probably the best chance we have of finding it, but I don't think he should come with us to confront this thing if he's not feeling a hundred percent."

Jim sat up. "You want me to cast with you?" he asked.

"If you're feeling okay," Dean told him, "Not hanging over too far."

Jimi broke into his first real smile for the day. "I will Hunt with my Pack!" he declared.

"Attaboy," grinned Dean. "So, we need a cover story... give me your phone, Jimi." Dean began to fiddle about with his phone and Jimi's. "I'm just gonna put a photo on here, one to tug at the heartstrings... what the...?" a confused look settled on his face as he scrolled through the phone. "Where did these come from? Angela... Barbara... Sally... Teagan... " He frowned at Jimi. "Jimi, did girls at that party put their numbers into your phone?"

"They asked for my phone," explained Jimi, "I didn't know why..." He looked suddenly curious "Does that mean I can use it to talk to them?" he asked.

"No," said Dean firmly, "You don't call chicks back – they get strange ideas if you do that, you call them back once and the next thing you know, they've convinced themselves that you're hooking up, they're looking at engagement rings with their girlfriends and they want you to meet their parents... what?" he snapped sharply at Sam, who was smiling and shaking his head.

"Nothing, O Fearless Alpha, nothing," said Sam, "Why don't you enlighten your humble Second as to your plan?"

"Dad, can I go outside?" asked Jimi. "I think I'm still hanging over," he added ruefully.

Dean looked unimpressed, but consented. "Okay," he allowed, "But you go sit on the bench right outside the window where I can see you, and DON'T MOVE from there, understand?"

"Yes, Dad," Jimi affirmed, heading for the door.

He sat, scuffing his feet back and forth, breathing the cold fresh air – it made him feel better. He was watching a squirrel intently as it made its way between trees in the park across the road, when he heard his name called.

"Adam!" he smiled, as his human friend approached along the sidewalk. "Are you here for play?"

"Depends on who turns up after last night," Adam sat next to him, "Hey, I hope you didn't get in too much trouble. Your Dad looked really angry."

"Yes," Jimi agreed, "He looked very angry indeed."

"So, what's the damage?" asked Adam sympathetically. "No fishing and stuff? Did he confiscate your computer or games?"

Jimi wasn't sure what that meant, but he understood that Adam was asking about the consequences of last night's partying. "He took my phone. And I am grounded," he responded.

"Oh, that sucks," commiserated Adam, "For how long?"

Jimi thought back to Dean's ranting the previous evening. "Until I'm forty," he said. "In dog years," he added.

"Whoa, harsh."

"I will not be allowed to have play today," Jimi told him. Inspiration suddenly struck. "Perhaps your friend who has been missing out will come today. Was he sick?"

"Who, Carl?" asked Adam. "Yeh, he came down with some stomach flu thing a couple of days ago, real sudden. His grandmother said it must've been something he ate, but I called him today, and he's feeling better. She won't let him out, though, wants him to stay in for a couple more days. Sucks to be him. Feeling like crap, and he didn't even get to have any fun beforehand."

The door of the diner opened, and the Winchesters emerged, Dean wearing his stern father face.

"I have to go," Jimi told Adam, "But, thank you for the play. And the party. It was awesome!"

"Hey, hope we see you around again sometime," smiled Adam, "You're a much better player than Carl!"

Back at the motel, Sam had some doubts about Dean's plan.

"So, then what? Once the front door opens, do you just say 'Excuse me, are you sheltering a Young werewolf? We wounded him with silver a couple of nights ago, and we'd like to finish him off before we leave town'?"

"No, I'll be looking for tells," replied Dean, "Nervousness, twitchiness, a Monty Python Silly Walk, anything to suggest that they're worried about something. If Jimi comes with me, he might pick up a whiff of Fido, this is just a ploy to get the door open."

"Where are we going?" asked Jimi.

"Looking for the Young werewolf," Dean told him, "We've got five places to look at – we're going to pretend you've lost your pet dog, and we're looking for him, and you're going to see if you can pick up his scent."

"Yes, Alpha," said Jimi. "We should start with Carl."

"Who?" asked Sam, turning around, "Who's Carl?"

"Adam's friend who did not come for play yesterday or the day before," Jimi told him, "He got sick suddenly. His grandmother will not let him out of the house for another two days."

Both Winchesters stared at their werehuman.

"Er, Jimi, when exactly did you find this out?" asked Dean.

"Just before, talking to Adam," replied the teen, "I asked his missing friend's name. He said 'Carl'."

"There was a Carl," muttered Sam, scrabbling amongst the notes From Dean's excursion through the Births, Deaths & Marriages records, "I'm sure there was… aha! Here. Bierman. Currently... seventeen. One house. And… his maternal grandmother is still alive." He looked up. "Gentlemen, we have ourselves a candidate."

"Well done, Jimi!" smiled Dean, "Good boy!" Jimi wiggle-danced excitedly at the praise. He fished Jimi's phone out of his pocket and handed it over. "Now, here's what you're going to do. I want you to pretend that you're really, really sad…"

"How sad?" asked Jimi.

"Really, really, really sad," Dean told him.

"How sad is that?" Jimi persisted.

"Um… imagine that Oinker Stoinker disappeared forever."

Jimi looked philosophical. "My toys do disappear, though. You take them away when they are damaged."

"Okay, okay, sadder than that. I want you to imagine that you can never ride in the car again."

Jimi looked thoughtful. "Yes, that would be sad, too." he agreed.

"No, no, I'm not getting the pathos here," Dean humphed, "I need sad, Jimi, sad, heartbroken, woebegone! Utterly miserable! What if… what if… what if your Dam died? Rumsfeld?"

Jimi cocked his head. "She will die, one day," he commented, "I will miss her, but it is the way of things."

Dean threw his hands up. "Help me out here, Sam," he pleaded, "You're Mr Talk About Our Feelings, do something!"

Sam considered the problem for a moment…

"Jimi," he said in a quiet voice, "I want you to imagine… no more bacon. No. More. Bacon. Not ever. Not ever again. Imagine you will never eat bacon again."

Jimi stared at him wide-eyed. His face fell, and his eyes shone with unshed tears.

Sam shrugged. Easy, bro," he said airily, "He's just like you."

"That's perfect," smiled Dean. "Jimi, I need you to keep hold of that thought. When the door opens, you make that face, then show them your phone, okay?" Jimi nodded, rendered speechless by merely the idea that anyone could even suggest the possibility of a theoretical World Without Bacon. "Good boy. Let's go, guys," he paused to look at Jimi. "If he was mine," he mused, "I'd push him into acting. That bone structure, that physique, he can cry on demand – they'd love him. I could be a pushy stage parent, and we'd make a fortune, and live in Beverly Hills, and I could hit on his cougar fans."

"With your luck, he'd decided he hated it, and run off to college to become a dentist," commented Sam.

"What?" Dean glared at him in horror. "No child of mine would ever become a dentist! Dentists are evil, Sammy, they are evil, and they enjoy torturing people, and if I ever run out of supernatural things to gank, I will start on the dentists. What sort of weirdo wants to spend their entire working life with their hands stuffed into someone's mouth? It's… unnatural. And unhygienic. And dangerous."

"And extremely well-paid," pointed out Sam.

"But dentists don't have cougar fans for me to hit on!" complained Dean.

"Well, the least worst option is probably to make sure he gets turned back into his doggy self," decided Sam, getting into the car. "And you'll just have to stick with the old fashioned way of finding your own women to hit on."

Dean sighed melodramatically, sliding in behind the wheel. "The life of a Living Sex God is a busy one," he noted.

"Poor you," sympathised Sam. "Some days, I don't know how you find the time to kill fuglies."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean knew something was up the moment the lady in her sixties opened the door. With the Living Sex God smiling charmingly at her, and his Mini-me standing with eyes swimming and lower lip quivering, it was clear that all she wanted to do was get rid of them. She barely even looked at the proffered phone picture of canine Jimi at age about four months, grinning adorably and looking as though he was posing for August in the Brain-Explodingly Cute Puppes calendar.

"No, I'm sorry, I haven't seen any dogs," she answered quickly, going to shut the door.

"Might anybody else in the house have seen him?" Dean persisted, "My son's really upset."

"No, we haven't seen any dogs," she repeated, "Excuse me." She shut the door.

"Well?" asked Dean, when they were back at the Impala, at the other end of the street where Sam sat with binoculars trained on the house. "See anything?"

"Nope," replied Sam, "But there is a ground floor window with the shutters boarded shut. What about you guys?"

"Grandma was definitely distracted about something," Dean decided, "She was impossibly resistant to the Puppy Dog Eyes, and didn't even go 'Awwwww' at the photo. With that much cute in one grid square, that wasn't normal." He turned to Jimi. "Pick up anything?"

"The Young's scent was strong there," Jimi told them, "I think that was his den."

"So, we have a location, a lair, and grandma keeping watch," mused Dean.

"Angela's scent was strong there too, Uncle Sammy," Jimi added.

"Angela?" queried Dean, cocking an eyebrow. "Jimi, who's Angela?"

"Oh, Angela was one of the girls I... met. Last night. At the party," answered Jimi, recalibrating the Sammy Eyes from Heartmeltingly Unhappy to Angelically Innocent. Strangely enough, Sam's Sammy Eyes reset to a similar expression.

"I see," said Dean levelly. He paused, then asked, "And how many times did you... _meet_ Angela?"

Jimi dropped his eyes and blushed. "Just once, Dad," he answered.

"Did you know about this, Sam?" Dean demanded of his brother.

"No! No! No!" declared Sam emphatically. "Or, if I'm honest – yes."

Dean sighed. "I'm not going to ask if there were any others," he said in a resigned tone, "Because I might not like the answer. Don't Ask, Don't Tell." He glanced back towards the Bierman residence. "So, all we have to do is get Carl to come out and play."

"Dad," started Jimi, "If I could smell him, then he could probably smell me. Us. He will probably recognise our scent. If he catches our scent, he will track us. He will hunt us."

"Okay, we find a place to tackle him, and let him come to us," Dean announced.

"Will I Hunt with you?" asked Jimi hopefully.

"You have to be there, it's part of turning you back into you," Sam explained, "But you have to stay out of the way, and away from the wolf. You're more likely to get hurt while you're human."

Dean checked his watch. "We got a number of hours to kill, ladies," he noted. "How about we get some supplies and get in a few hours of educational viewing before wolf-time?"

Sam stared at him. "You cannot possibly intend to watch porn with Jimi," he stated flatly.

"No, Sam, that's just your filthy mind," Dean replied primly, "I had in mind the Lassie-athon on cable. I'll bet Jimi will like that."

"I like the TV," agreed Jimi, "But maybe I will eat another sandwich." He looked contrite. "I think I am still hanging over."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Wow, look at the hair on her – she makes Sammy look positively manly."

"Dad..."

"I don't know why she bothers with him, the kid is a moron – falling down cliffs, into rivers, now a damned mineshaft, he's blind as well as stupid..."

"Dad..."

"A smart, attractive lady like Lassie should find a better owner. She can do better."

"Dad..."

"Knows how to handle herself in a fight, too – this bitch totally kicks ass!"

"Dad..."

"What do you think, Jimi? Is she hot, or what?"

"Dad, that dog is male!"

_*snigger snigger snigger*_

"Shut up, Sam..."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Okay, I think I've found our O-K Corral," announced Dean, peering at the map again, "You got the weather site up, Sam?"

"Right here," Sam tapped at the laptop, "The wind is coming from the West, so..."

_*beep*_

"...We'll be upwind of him. He'll be able to smell us."

"Hopefully, if he's feeling better, that'll be enough to bring him out..."

_*beep*_

"...Of hiding."

"Provided he can dodge Grandma," Sam reminded him. "Can we see the house from there?"

"I think so," Dean studied his map again. "Depends on how many trees there are in the way, but with the binoculars..."

_*beep*_

"...We should be able to at pick it out." He checked his gun again. "You tooled up, Sammy?"

"Silver ammo, silvered knife," Sam checked off his inventory.

"Right, then, let's move out gentlemen. Moonrise is in..."

_*beep*_

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Sam," Dean rolled his eyes, "Plug that thing in before we go, will you?"

"I'm doin' it, I'm doin' it," grumbled Sam, fishing through his bag for the charger for the offending phone. "You ready, Jimi? Know what you have to do?"

"Yes, Uncle Sammy," answered Jimi, radiating obedience.

"He's not hanging over any more, if the way he ate that last pack of Cheetos is anything to judge by," commented Dean. "So, hopefully by the time this is over, you'll be back to your proper self, Jimi."

Jimi wiggle-danced a little. "Yes, Dad," he acknowledged. "Being Upright is complicated."

"You think being a human kid is bad," Dean said, clapping him on the shoulder with a wistful smile, "You should try being a human parent. You should be grateful you won't ever have to deal with puppies – you might get one who was just like you."

"Well, there was that Hellhound he mated with, in Iowa," Sam mused his brother.

"Dr Wooley said he was probably too young," Dean reminded him, "Which is probably just as well." He checked his watch. "Right, let's bug out." He turned to Sam. "I don't want to tango with this thing any more than is absolutely necessary - if this doesn't flip Jimi's dog-shape switch right away, we gank it, then head to Bobby's to figure out how to change him back."

"Gotcha," agreed Sam, with a sigh. His expression told Dean that they were thinking the same thing – neither of them was looking forward to dealing with a werewolf that was, after all, a seventeen-year-old kid.

Half a minute later, the Impala rumbled out of the lot.

Three quarters of a minute later, Sam's recharging phone rang; since there was nobody there to answer it, the call went through to voicemail. The caller sounded anxious.

_Sam? It's Ronnie. Look, I think I've figured something out – it's going to take more than just a face-off with the wolf to turn Jimi back into his cuddly canine self, it's going to be waaaay trickier than that... you have to find the wolf, but for fuck's sake, don't kill it! Do NOT kill the wolf! Shit, just call me back before you go and confront this thing. Seriously, don't let that gung-ho brother of yours plug it full of silver. You hear me, Dean? I mean it, you're gunna need it alive..._

* * *

Lassie was played by male dogs. True dinks. I understand that Dean Winchester in 'Supernatural' is actually played by a male, too...


	14. Chapter 13

I am humbled, overwhelmed and given a chocolate-coated happy by the kindness of the people who've take time to review my plot-bunny expunging. This one is just about done, thankfully, it's been driving me nuts. Yes, Cat, my story 'Balls' is the one about desexing Jimi. It's all about Responsible Pet Ownership, people! (Sgt Cutlack must've been a self-insertion, it's kind of one of my hobby horses, too.) This is a long chapter, but I figure we're all wanting this thing to end, so here we go. Next time, I should try a one-shot. And there will have to be a next time, because, yes, Anya from 'Buffy' had that bit right, IT MUST BE BUNNIES! EVIL BUNNIES! Oh, will somebody pat celeste301 on the back, she's spraying cookie crumbs everywhere...

ETA: It's Monday morning Down Here, and Evil FanFictionNet won't let me update with this chapter - hopefully any server iss-ews will be dealt with soon, so Bartlebead can blame FFN Gremlins for any withdrawal symptoms...

ETA: A marvellous person called SLASHGUY came up with a workaround, so I can update this! YAAAAAAAAAAY! It's server-wide, lots of people are having problems with updates, uploads, new stories, you name it - let's all think chocolate-covered positive waves at the FFN Gurus, because they must be flat out at the moment.

Okay, onward! Follow me chaps! Somebody remember to bring the chocolate, and the biscuits. And the tea.

* * *

**Chapter 13**

"See anything?" asked Dean, peering into the darkness. The moon was well up, a brisk favourable wind was carrying their scent to the Bierman residence, but there was no sign of the werewolf showing.

"Not so far," answered Sam, scanning the house. On the rise where they stood, he could just make out the back of the building, with the boarded-up window. "Maybe Grandma has him on a tight leash... hang on..." he refocused. "The shutters just moved. There, they moved again. From the inside. Looks like he's trying to break out, but they're holding."

"Damn," muttered Dean, taking the binoculars from his brother to get his own look at the shuddering shutters blocking the window. "If I'd thought he'd try to bust out that way, I'd have snuck back there and levered up a couple of boards."

"What's wrong, Dad?" asked Jimi anxiously.

"The Young wolf is trying to break out of the house, but he's barricaded in," explained Sam, "His family are trying to keep him contained."

Jimi considered this for a moment, then drew in a deep breath...

He threw back his head, and howled.

The noise made the hair stand up on the back of the Winchesters' necks. It was a long, wavering sound, containing a challenge, and, Dean thought, a hint of the note of smugness he'd heard in Jimi's howl last night, after he had... yes, well.

"Jesus wept, Jimi," breathed Sam after a moment, "What the hell was that?"

"I have told the Young we are here," Jimi answered.

"I think he got the message," continued Sam, "The shutters are... one of the boards just let go. Wow, he's going nuts in there."

"What did you, er, say to him?" Dean asked.

" 'I am in your pack's territory, I have mated with your bitch, and it was awesome'," Jimi translated from Canine.

"He is just like you, bro," commented Sam with a chuckle, not dropping his eyes from the house, "That's just the sort of thing you'd... shit, he's out!" A grey shape burst from the splintering shutters, and streaked for the wooded area. "Crap, he's obviously feeling better – he's fast, I hardly saw him."

"Let's hope he's too angry to think clearly," muttered Dean grimly. "Go on Jimi," he ordered, "Like I told you. You stay out of the way."

Jimi was not happy about that. "My Pack is Hunting," he said plaintively. Jimi looked to Sam, then gave Dean the strongest glare a Young would dare offer an Alpha. "You divide your attention in the Hunt," he reproached Dean, "Second is Elder. He could take a bitch, den, and be Alpha to his own pack if he wished. You are Alpha. Your attention should not be divided so."

Both brothers heard the unhappy thought behind Jimi's comment. _My Hunters are threatened. Protect my Hunters! _

Dean smiled at the teen. "And yours wouldn't be?" he teased gently.

Jimi gave him a piercing stare, and streaks of red crackled across his brown eyes. "I am a Hunters' dog," he rumbled, sounding suddenly old and wise beyond his appearance, "That is the way of things."

Dean felt a sudden stab of regret at losing this young man back to his true form. "I am Sam's... Litter-Elder," he explained, smiling fondly, "And for me, this is the way of things. You are so much like your real Dad, your sire," he added.

"He's so much like his human Dad," grinned Sam, scanning the trees.

"You'll Hunt with us all the time, when you are Elder, but right now, we have to keep you safe, especially while you're Upright," Dean finished.

"I am not a Pup! I will be an Elder soon!" Jimi was suddenly all petulant, impatient teenager again.

"Sorry, Jimi," laughed Dean affectionately, ruffling the boy's hair, "But no matter how old you get, every time I look at you, I can still see a Pup I could hold in the crook of one arm. It's a Dad thing."

"I submit," Jimi said unhappily, throwing his arms around Dean for a quick bone-crushing hug. "Be careful, Alpha. Dad." He stepped back, scenting the air. "He's coming," he told them quickly, pointing. "That way." With that, he turned and loped for cover in long, ground-eating strides.

"Trying to flank us," mused Dean, as they shifted position slightly, "He has to break cover to get to us."

There was stillness, and silence – no detectable movement, and no telltale threatening growls.

"Damn," huffed Sam, "Why did we have to get one capable of learning from his mistakes?"

"I should've worn the fishing hat, that worked last time," Dean remarked, sauntering closer to the treeline. "Guess we'll have to make ourselves look more appetizing."

Sam rolled his eyes. "By which your mean 'I'll just trawl myself as bait'," he complained, ready to provide covering fire.

"I'm Alpha, you're Second – this is the way of things," Dean told him, turning his attention back to the trees. "Hey, Carl! You missed a hell of a party last night. Grandma keeps you on a tight leash, huh? It's okay, though, my boy banged your bitch for you. Did you hear him howl? Man, I'll be surprised if she can walk before next week..."

The Young werewolf broke cover, moving impossibly fast – behind him, headed for Sam.

Dean spun around in time to see Sam get a shot off before the thing was on top of him – either he missed, or the thing was so angry it just didn't care. It ploughed into him, backhanding him and sending him reeling like a tossed rag doll.

"Fuck!" swore Dean, "Sam!" Carl had learned from his mistake – he left no opportunity for Dean to get off a clear shot. "Sam! Get out of there!" The werewolf grabbed Sam by the shoulder, bringing its claws up for a slashing strike; Sam managed to put his knife into its shoulder. It snarled in anger and pain, staggering to its haunches, but didn't let go of the younger Winchester.

Jimi watched from the cover of the trees as his Alpha moved to the aid of his Second.

_He wanted to be A Good Boy. His Alpha had told him to stay out of sight, so he did, whining to himself with worry as he saw the attack unfold._

_The werewolf's stagger was a feint; his canine self could see it plainly..._

_...And there went his Alpha, his attention on his Second again._

_Jimi glanced downward: his body was still Upright, and his Alpha had told him he was weaker, more vulnerable like this, but the dark, hot voice whispering in his mind was implacable._

_Your Pack is threatened. You are a Hunters' dog. Protect your Pack. _

_Protect your Hunters._

"This is the way of things," he nodded to himself, his eyes glowing the red of fanned embers as he burst from cover, moving faster than any Upright should be able to do.

He aimed squarely for the wolf, snarling his challenge.

_I Hunt with my Pack! Submit! I will kill!_

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Dean saw his mistake the second he got within arm's reach of the werewolf – the fucking thing was sandbagging, he realised with alarm, as it rose to stand on two legs with frightening speed, still using Sam's struggling form as a shield. Its predatory eyes narrowed, and he jumped backwards as razor claws whistled through the air, catching his gun arm and flinging the weapon away. He scrabbled for his knife, but it was moving impossibly fast, dragging Sam with it...

He heard the snarl like an angry chainsaw a bare moment before the werewolf's attention suddenly flicked away from him, a flash of surprise racing across its lupine features, then it was knocked backwards as Jimi, eyes glowing like his father's but otherwise still very human, barrelled into the thing.

The wolf dropped its hold on Sam, as it and Jimi flew backwards under the impact. Jimi rolled to his feet, and was on the wolf immediately, his snarl matching its own.

Dean's right arm was a painful dead weight, not responding to the helm where the werewolf had connected with it. With his other arm, he dragged Sam clear, looking for his gun.

"It's not working!" Sam panted, head still reeling, as Jimi and the wolf wrestled, "He's still human!"

The wolf moved in, aiming a wicked blow at Jimi.

The boy's head rocked back, but he stood his ground, and returned the wolf's blow, staggering it. He snarled again.

_I hunt in your territory! I mated your bitch! She will whelp my pups! Submit! I WILL KILL!_

"Jimi! JIMI!" shouted Dean, "Get the hell out of the way! Fuck, he's provoking the damned thing! JIMI! What the hell is he doing? He can't beat it like that!"

"Covering our exit, because he's just like you," muttered Sam, staggering to his feet. "And he's still human."

"Fuck this," Dean decided, "We gank the bastard, and work this out at Bobby's. Jimi, get the FUCK out of the way, that's an order!"

The wolf fell back as Jimi hit it again, hesitating, considering this new opponent between itself and the Hunters that had killed his Sire. It looked upright, but it was something... _darker_... It made a decision.

When in doubt, go for the kill.

Jimi sprang forward at the same instant the wolf did, and they met with a sickening meaty thud, the wolf biting into Jimi's shoulder. Jimi screamed in rage, and buried his teeth in the thing's throat.

Dean was in a rage of frustration – even given the half-Hellhound strength the boy apparently retained, Jimi's human teeth would be no match for the wolf's giant canine bite, but there was no way to get a shot at the thing with him so close... he let out a yell of sheer outrage at the injustice of it. He had a brief memory of another dog, his jaws clamped determinedly on an enemy threatening his Hunter even as his life bubbled away…

Jimi's eyes locked briefly, fiercely with Dean's. There was no apology in them as he clung on determinedly while the blood flowed freely from his shoulder.

_I protect my Hunters. This is the way of things._

"No," whispered Dean to himself, "No..."

And then, and then...

It started.

Later, he would argue with Sam over what it looked like. To Dean, it resembled a morphing sequence of the sort that might come out of ILM or Weta studios. Sam thought it reminded him of a physics experiment he'd seen once, with two soft plastic toys in a tank of water shrinking and warping and reshaping as the pressure in the tank fluctuated...

Locked together, Jimi and the werewolf... shrank.

Their forms wavered, as if in a heat haze, melted around the edges, shimmering, shifting, until, until...

There was a teenage boy, and a four-legged animal that dropped to all four legs.

The boy did not look at all like Dean.

The animal was a young Rottweiler on the edge of adulthood.

The dog turned to Dean, grinning doggily. His head poked out of one of Dean's t-shirts and he stepped out of the sweatpants behind him. His tail wagged vigorously, his whole back end waggling with it. The overall effect was absolutely adorable.

"That is a picture you could put on a calendar," commented Sam in a dazed voice.

Dean hunkered down, and the dog threw itself at him, woofing excitedly and kissing his nose.

He almost didn't register when the boy sitting on the ground, staring at one hand, asked bemusedly, "What... happened?"

Dean shook himself, and turned to face the teenager. "So, I'm guessing you're Carl?" he asked carefully.

"Yes... Carl Bierman..." the teen seemed dazed, staring at his hand. "I've... changed..." he looked up at the sky, where the full moon hung cold and white, then back at his body. "I'm... I'm me."

"Carl," said Sam carefully, "Humour me here for a moment..." moving slowly, so as not to startle the boy, he took hold of his arm, and pressed the flat of his silver knife to the skin. Carl jerked, but there was no reaction.

"Fuck me," breathed Dean, not bothering to fend off Jimi's enthusiastic and generously slobbery greetings, "Just... fuck me.'

"What happened?" asked Carl. "Did I..." his face was a picture of anguish. "Did I... I changed, didn't I? I broke out."

"I have no idea how it happened," Sam told him, "But I think that you and Jimi here have, um, fixed each other. You're cured of werewolfism, and he's cured of... werehumanism."

"Er, Sam," butted in Dean, nodding towards Carl, "Lend the kid your shirt will you? Naked Guy Kid?" Sam rolled his eyes and shucked out of his flannel shirt. He examined the bite mark on Car's neck as he offered the teen his shirt. "We'll get that patched up," he told the boy, "Then I think we'd best get you home." He turned back to Dean. "How's Jimi?"

"He'll live," Dean confirmed, smiling, as the dog continued to solicit attention, "It doesn't look too bad now he's himself again. Probably no point bandaging it, he'll just eat any dressings." He patted the dog. "At least you can go back to having a b-a-t-h without the bonus additional Special Me-Time."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The story Carl's grandmother told them between sobs as she hugged her very human grandson was a sad one – Carl's paternal grandfather had been bitten as a young man, and the family had managed as well as they could, barricading him in a fortified room for the duration of the full moon. Occasionally, though, he'd get out, and all they could do was pray he wouldn't kill too noticeably... as a young man, Carl's father had let his curiosity about his father's condition get the better of him, leading to a second generation werewolf, shortly before the Elder wolf disappeared one night. Hunters, probably, she mused philosophically. The same curiosity had seen Carl bitten by his own father several months ago, and the teenage werewolf had none of the limited awareness and self-preservation that the older wolves had learned – his father had tried to accompany him, guide him, but, well, boys would be boys...

"You've dealt with his father, then," she said resignedly – it was a statement, not a question. The Winchesters remained silent. "Inevitable, I suppose... thank you. For bringing Carl back."

"We don't often get happy endings in cases like these," smiled Sam wistfully, "But I think this is about as close as we could get."

"I'm sorry," said Carl in a small voice, looking much younger than seventeen. "I hope your dog is all right."

"He'll be fine," Dean assured him. "Next time one of the family says they want to be alone, just leave them to it, okay?" The boy managed a small smile. "Come on Sam, our work here is done, let's get back to the Batcave."

As they were leaving, Carl had one more question. "Was he really human?" he asked, looking at Jimi, who grinned at him and butted his hand, soliciting pats, and clearly not holding any grudge.

"Yep," grinned Dean, "And he was a great kid."

Carl looked around to make sure his grandmother was out of earshot. "Did he really mate with Angela?" he asked in a plaintive, hurt tone.

Sam, ever the diplomat, stepped in. "I think he said it distract you from us. You should ask her about it." With a reassuring smile, he steered Dean firmly away from the door and back to the car.

"What the hell, bro? Jimi totally banged Angela!" declared Dean as they headed back to their motel.

"Maybe, but Carl can talk it out with her," Sam told him.

"Dude, she did Special Cuddles with Jimi behind Carl's back," Dean pointed out, "He deserves to know."

"Not from us," stated Sam firmly. "And you do not get to brag about the carnal prowess of your 'son' to some traumatised kid who already has enough going on in his head to put him into therapy for the next several years. That would be weird, creepy, and wrong on so many levels."

"It's probably just as well he's a dog again," said Dean, smiling fondly at the happy canine face in the mirror, "Being the son of the Living Sex God, well, poor kid would've had had girls throwing themselves at him constantly. It can be tough."

"No doubt," nodded Sam agreeably. "It would be very aggravating, being pestered constantly for casual sex, when all he really wanted to do was get to his Dentistry lectures on time and work on his stamp collection."

"Bitch."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

The happy strains of The Rubber Ducky Song According To Dean Featuring Oinker Stoinker wafted out of the bathroom as Sam checked his phone, grinned, then fired up the laptop. He'd barely started Skype when Ronnie's anxious face came into view, and she started without preamble.

"Sam! Thank fuck, I've been trying to get hold of you, look, this whole werehuman thing, it's going to be complicated, I'll be there tomorrow and Dean will have to suck it up, because what we have to do is…"

"Get the wolf to bite Jimi without killing him," Sam finished for her, with a smile.

She stared at him comically, mouth agape in astonishment. Joni's head bobbed into view, and she whuffed at the screen.

"No, Joni, your brother isn't here," Sam told the dog, as she cocked her head and looked for the source of his voice, "He's in the, er, b-a-t-h, getting cleaned up after this evening's adventures."

"The… b-a-t-h?" echoed Ronnie. "You mean, he's… he's himself again?"

"Yup," confirmed Sam, picking up the laptop and moving quietly to the bathroom door, "Dean's just washing him." He held the laptop to the door so she could hear the bathtime song, punctuated by the sounds of a squeaky toy being given a workout, for herself.

"Oinker Stoinker, joy of joys,  
When I squeeze you, you make noise, _whuungk whuuungk  
_Oinker Stoinker you're my very best friend it's true…"

Sam considered taking the laptop into the bathroom, but decided that the Patrick-Stewart-Look-Like-Donald-Trump-Haircut threat was far too real, and decided against it.

He moved quietly back to his bed, as Ronnie laughed. "Well, don't just sit there," she demanded, "Spill, you!"

He did, including the Lecture, the Party, the Second Lecture (at that point he turned the volume down because she was howling with laughter at the other end of the connection), the Morning After The Night Before, and the final confrontation with the wolf. Ronnie was genuinely pleased.

"That is such a relief," she sighed, stroking Joni's ears. "Whoever would've guessed that he'd de-wolf the Young werewolf?"

"Not me," admitted Sam, "But Bobby will want to get a detailed account of it."

"Well, you'd better prepare a report to the All-Knowing Oracle," she said. "Incidentally, how are you going with, um, Operation B-Word?"

"Pretty good, actually," Sam told her, "Your instructions worked perfectly, although it's been tricky, making preparations without Dean finding out. I was just about ready to, er, deploy the beast when we left for this job."

"I knew he'd learn it quickly," she nodded, "Because" – Ronnie made a pantomimed act of putting her hands over Joni's ears – "Jimi was the pick of the litter. I could've cried when he didn't pick me. But you did, didn't you?" she smiled at Joni, who whuffed happily, soliciting pats. "Let me know how you go. Get pictures, if you can," she added, with a mischievous grin.

"Will do. Ronnie, before you go…" Sam paused, wondering how best to phrase the questions that had been pestering him since their previous conversation, "When you spoke to Jimi when he was human, you used words… Young. Elder. You called Dean and me his Alpha and his Second when you told him to look after us."

She gave him a thoughtful, calculating stare. "I did, didn't I," she agreed slowly. "Bobby said you were the smart one. Notices things. Notice notice notice, you go."

"Have you encountered anything like this before?" asked Sam, "Because anything you can tell us that might help with Jimi… we might meet one of these things again, God knows how we'd arrange a non-fatal bite to switch him back if it happened again, and who knows what he might get bitten by when he's Hunting with us…"

Ronnie let out a long breath. "Sam, can you keep a secret?" she asked seriously.

"If it means you tell me something that can help Jimi, yes," he answered.

Not taking her eyes off him, she held a hand out in front of her. Joni watched entranced as her Hunter extended her fingers, the digits lengthening, roughening, the nails extruding as claws, while her smile widened, accomodating the pair of curved, yellowed canine fangs that protruded over her bottom lip…

In a blink, she sat back, smiling, completely human. Sam stared at the screen.

"A certain amount of… self-awareness," she reiterated, "And… control. Not easy. But possible. For an Old North werewolf... guru."

He sat, dumbfounded. "How… when?" he asked finally.

She grinned at him, all trace of the wolf gone. "It's a long story," she told him, "Maybe one day you'll get me drunk enough to tell you. Yes, Bobby knows. No, hardly anybody else. One or two I trust."

"You really do speak Canine," Sam nodded to himself.

"How else do you think I got Joni trained so far so young?" she asked. "Hey, try this on Jimi…"

She coached him in a gruff whuffing sound for a few minutes, until they were both laughing.

Do me a favour," she said wryly, "Don't tell your brother. He has a tendency to see things in black and white. I'd hate for him to come Hunting me – having to break his neck would vex me, no matter how damned annoying he is. But if you ever have any, er, difficulties with Jimi, get in touch. I can dole out a little love-bite to Bobby's favourite grandfurkid."

"Thanks, Ronnie," Sam said, looking thoughtful. "It's been… educational." She waved as the connection ended.

"It looked worse than it is," Dean said of Jimi's wound as the emerged from the bathroom shortly afterwards, "It must be the whole Hellhound connective-tissue-of-steel thing, huh, J-Man?" Jimi wagged his tail, and headed for his blanket to dry off. "We can head out tomorrow," Dean continued, getting dressed, "Bobby will want to hear all the details of this one. Who were you talking to?"

"Ronnie," answered Sam, smirking at the grumpy look that crossed Dean's face, "She left me a message, wanted to make sure we didn't kill the werewolf, because she'd figured out we needed to get him bitten to switch him back."

"Huh, well, turns out, we didn't need her help, did we?" Dean sounded smug as he pulled a shirt on. Sam waited until he was dressed, then used the whuffing snort that Ronnie had taught him.

Jimi got up, eyes dancing, and threw himself at Dean for an enthusiastic, and damp, doggy hug.

"Gah!" yelped Dean. "Wet dog! Wet dog! Yes, I love you too, Jimi, now get down," Jimi dropped to the floor. "Jeez, he's happy to be himself again."

"I think it's best for everyone," agreed Sam, making the whuff-noise again. Satellite Jimi launched Deanward once more, tail wagging, tongue licking, and damp fur shedding.

"Jimi!" Dean returned the dog's affection, but looked at him with a bemused expression. "If you dare try to get any friendlier, I'll remind you, I don't bat for that team…" he sat on his bed, inspecting his damp, fur-covered shirt. "This was clean, too, I'll have to change it…."

_Snuffle-whuff _went Sam.

Jimi gleefully jumped onto the bed, butting enthusiastically at Dean. The elder Winchester looked suspiciously at his brother. "What's that noise you made?" he asked, trying to fend off Jimi's increasingly boisterous advances.

"What, this noise? _Snuffle-whuff_," replied Sam innocently.

Jimi body-slammed Dean flat onto the bed, sat on him, and kissed him enthusiastically.

"Saaaaaaaam! Help!" howled Dean, trapped under 125-odd pounds of tail-wagging, affectionate, devoted, and damp dog, "Whatever you just did, _stop it_!"

Sam laughed, and fished out his phone, resolving to try it on Rumsfeld and Janis with Bobby sometime. Ignoring Dean's pleas for help, he readied the camera, and said it again.

_Your Alpha loves you._

* * *

Just one more weeny leetle (for me, anyway) chapterlet to go, I promise. Because you want to know what Operation B-Word is, don't you? Chocolate-coated internets to anyone who guesses what Sam's been up to with Jimi behind Dean's back...


	15. Chapterlet, the last

Well, it _is_ a chapterlet. Short. Ish. For me... anyone who's read 'Balls' will recognise the reference to the fig tree on the road out of Bethany, and what *really* happened with it... *snigger snigger* Roman figs, *snigger snigger*...

elf, Dean's okay, the werewolf whacked his arm and deadarmed him, but the claws missed, so after a bit of swearing and Jimi kissing it better, it was fine. (You can still help if you want: '... then elf appeared in the doorway and Dean held up his arm and showed her the bruise and pouted and said "I has an owie" and she said "I'll get the liniment" then she and Dean had some Special Time in the bathroom and used up all Sam's shower gel...')

I'll be at the beach. Preparing to repel swimming plot bunnies.

*****ETA on 25 MARCH 11**: BUNNY ALERT! Can you believe it? One of the litle bastards has made it ashore already, and is hopping around under the desk, pestering me... oh, hell's bells, it's even got a working title, 'Can You Dig It?' _Gaaaah!_ I blame Elf _completely_, wanting the full story of Jimi digging out a revenant on his first proper Hunt... **HOWEVER** I will not be able to do anything with this until the FFN site iss-ews are resolved - the New Story workaround is not satisfactory (anyone who's having trouble, or is interested, go and check out the discussions in the Help forum, under General forums), so I have NFI how long it will be until I can post anything. I have to get some proper actual work done, too, which has to take precedence on account of gainful employment being less fun that writing fanfics, but it pays much better. Keep thinking those positive waves at the FFN Interwebs Gurus - OM!

* * *

**Chapterlet the last**

_One day later…_

"Git out of it, ya idjit animals!" growled Bobby good-naturedly as Rumsfeld and Janis leaped at him, tails wagging, when Sam surreptitiously unleashed the power of The Whuff on the unsuspecting old Hunter.

Dean laughed all the way from the car into the house. "They can't help themselves, Bobby," he wheezed, flopping down on the sofa, "Bitches just love you! It's that animal magnetism thing that you exud-OOF!" His amusement was cut short when Jimi, prompted by Sam with The Whuff, threw himself at Dean for some Alpha lovin'.

"Well, I guess it's nice to know that I'm appreciated by somebody," mused Bobby philosophically.

"It's Sam," frowned Dean, carefully repositioning Jimi's paws in his lap before they permanently raised the register of his singing voice, "He's been watching The Dog Whisperer. He makes this noise, and the dogs go nuts for a bit of full-frontal action, with tongues."

Bobby narrowed his eyes at Sam. "You been talkin' to Ronnie, boy?" he demanded. Sam beamed back innocently.

"She's a very interesting... person," he answered carefully.

"That much is certain," Bobby agreed. "So, Dean," he continued, deliberately changing the subject, "How did you like being a parent?"

"I think I like him just fine like this," answered Dean, patting the dog slouched across his lap.

"It was amazing, Bobby," Sam picked up the topic, "He was just like Dean. He looked like him, ate like him, jerked off like him, screwed like him..." Dean let out a squawk of outrage.

"Sounds like your Daddy must've put The Dreaded Parents' Curse on you sometime," pronounced Bobby. "It's a terrible thing for a parent to do, wish your kids offspring just like themselves."

"I never crawled into my Dad's bed nekkid," Dean specified, "And I sure as hell never argued with him about getting dressed." He looked down at Jimi, who was gazing back adoringly. "I've already raised a Sasquatch," he added, "And that was traumatic enough."

"For which one of us?" asked Sam.

""Me," specified Dean, "Definitely me. C'mon, J-Man," he continued, nudging the dog, "Daddy needs a drink, so get off his lap..."

"Sit tight, bro," Sam told him. "Jimi!" he called for the dog's attention, and gave him a signal unfamiliar to Dean. "Jimi – Beer."

Jimi jumped down from the sofa and trotted briskly into the kitchen. The sound of bottles tinkling in the door of the refrigerator wafted to them, then the slam of the door closing again. The dog trotted back into the living room, a bottle of beer in his mouth. Sam praised him, and waved him in Dean's direction. Dean sat, a smile growing on his face, as Jimi presented him with the bottle.

"Dude," he said to the dog, ruffling his ears, "Dude, that is awesome!" Jimi took his favourite place on the sofa, head slouching in Dean's lap, and soaked up the approval with a happy expression.

"You have been talking to Ronnie," smirked Bobby in a low voice, as Dean patted and praised Jimi.

"It was just a case of teaching him each step, backwards in sequence," explained Sam, "He might act a bit, er, blonde, sometimes, but really, he's smart. Suicidally unconcerned with his own welfare, but smart."

"Hmmmm, remind you of anybody else we know?" asked Bobby with a raised eyebrow, as Dean and Jimi started a tug-of-war with Oinker Stoinker.

"Can't think who you could possibly be referring to," smiled Sam, heading for the kitchen to get his own beer.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_Eighteen months later…_

"Oui, Maitre, je l'ai ici," answered Robert, hefting the carefully measured bowl of dried herb and answering the summons of the brewmaster. The old monk smiled, and offered encouragement on his progress, then dismissed him when the bell rang. Robert scuttled obediently to his cell to begin his readings and meditation, feeling a small sense of achievement at having answered readily in French. Then he sighed. He'd probably have to confess that – Pride. Still, he mused, being a Novice meant making mistakes, so it would be more surprising if he didn't have things to confess…

"C'est vrai," agreed a gruff voice behind him which followed immediately after a large flapping sound, "Etre un novice, ca veut dire, vous etes comme un infant, avec beaucoup des choses apprendre…"

Robert spun around, nearly tripping over his cassock, and let out a little shriek. A small detached part of his brain wondered if he'd have to confess that as a breaking of Grand Silence…

"You!" the work squeaked out of him at the sight of the dark-haired man, wearing the same slightly rumpled suit and trench-coat he'd worn on that day, when, when, when…

"You… how…what are you doing here?" he hissed, figuring that if he'd already broken Grand Silence, he couldn't make it worse.

"The last time we met, I enjoyed our conversation," replied Castiel, looking around the small spartan space, "And I thought I might visit you again, and continue to assist you with your book. Your current situation is… most unexpected."

Robert's mouth fell open. "That was a year and a half ago!" he exclaimed, dumbfounded. He shook his head. "You're a hallucination," he declared, "Induced by a marijuana-laced brownie." That had to be right, because rumpled-looking men did not pull fountain pens out of thin air, then _sprout wings_ and fly away and _disappear into thin air_… He looked anxious. Had he been inhaling too deeply whilst weighing out the herbs for the brewmaster? He'd have to confess this, and see if there was a dust mask or something he could wear…

"I am Castiel, an Angel Of The Lord, a Warrior of Heaven," corrected Castiel gently, "However, I enjoyed instructing you even for one afternoon. I would be happy to continue now – do you have your book?" He waved his hand, and called forth the Red Pen Of Heavenly Correction, an expression of anticipation on his face.

Robert pointed at the small desk, where a Bible sat next to a Book of Offices. Castiel picked it up, and looked confused for a moment.

"I was not expecting this," Castiel reiterated, "But since we are here, and this book also is the flawed work of men, we can still spend some educational time together. Quite recently, I became aware of a particular parable that was altered after the fact, because real events were deemed insufficiently solemn by the men of the church some hundreds of years later. It concerns the passage where Jesus is leaving Bethany, and encounters a fig tree, which reportedly bore no fruit, and so he cursed it. The real sequence of events, I think, offers a human insight into the love of our Father's Son for the people He lived with, and died for, and one human I know found it uproariously amusing…" Castiel flipped through the pages, finding the offending text, and began to correct it.

"Um, I'm not supposed to talk during Grand Silence," Robert told him, a touch reproachfully. Damn, something else to confess, that probably counted as Anger…

"Then I will lecture, and you may listen," Castiel told him with a benevolent smile.

Robert considered his options.

He could run screaming from his cell, find the Master of Novices and tell him that the angel he'd seen back in North Dakota – yep, an angel, only I didn't tell you that when I applied to enter this Order because I knew just how completely crazy I'd sound – well, that angel I didn't ever tell anybody about, he's back, he's wearing exactly the same clothes, he's in my cell, he's correcting my Bible, and it's all his fault I broke Grand Silence and felt Anger, but the Pride bit earlier was all me. Frere Jerome would hear him out, nodding, wearing the cat's ass expression that the grumpy old codger habitually wore whenever one of his charges managed to screw something up – oh, no, his next confession was going to take forever – then suspect he'd been getting stuck into the green Chartreuse when the brewmaster wasn't looking…

Or, he could sit here, and listen to Castiel.

After all, being instructed by an angel didn't actually count as sin, did it? That was a tricky question, because he'd found out pretty quickly that according to Catholicism, just about _anything _could count as sin, but…

A small part of him was also intrigued at the thought of something uproariously amusing in the Bible. And if he was truthful, there were passages in it that he had wondered about from when he was very young…

"A sincere desire for knowledge is not a sin, Robert," intoned Castiel, sounding stern and imposing, yet reassuring.

Robert made his decision.

He nodded, and pulled up a small stool to sit beside Castiel, who smiled, and began to explain what really happened on the road out of Bethany.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

_Three years later…_

Tammy-Faye was sitting on his face again, thought Cody muzzily as he woke up. She did it because she was fond of him, liked to be close to him, but sleeping with a half-Persian-probably-according-to-the-lady-at-the-animal-shelter-but-could-equally-be-part-Pomeranian-because-she-thinks-she's-a-dog cat sitting on your head, well, it wasn't always a recipe for a completely restful night's sleep.

On the upside, he mused, sitting up and stroking Tammy-Faye's fluffy head, by doing so she had inspired a series of his most provocative and successful works: the 'Cat Hat Suffocating Bed Head God Correction' poems had come out of a run of dreams he'd had, precipitated by Tammy Faye's personal positioning preferences and the strange herbal extracts he'd been mixing into his hot chocolate for the previous week, in which a giant cat glided between clouds, trying to catch a man with messy dark hair who sailed effortlessly through the sky, streaks of red from his pen slashing crimson gashes across the blue background. The critics had acclaimed it, his fans had loved it, and three Elders from his old congregation had called for him to be excommunicated. Again.

Cody sat up, yawned, and pulled on clothes – whilst he wasn't that bothered about covering up in his own apartment, bitter experience told him that if he sat down to work for any length of time, Tammy Faye would insist on joining him, sitting comfortably in his lap, and she liked to knead – the 'Yow Yow Keyboard Coat Slave Transcending Pain Of Creation Claws' poems and essays had been testament to that. The students he'd been invited to address after they were published were almost disbelieving when he explained Tammy Faye's role as a feline muse.

He didn't try to explain the man in the trenchcoat, though – there was a difference between being alternative/eccentric/visionary and plain nuts. Alternative would get you money, fans, broad-minded girls, and pharmaceutically active substances. Nuts would get you locked up, still with pharmaceutically active substances, but not so much choice involved.

He made himself a cup of chocolate with a generous amount of his latest plant-based acquisition in it, added a dash of vodka as an afterthought, then slouched on the sofa, pulling the laptop towards himself, leaving plenty of room for Tammy Faye, of course, or she'd just walk on the keyboard, and he couldn't make sense of what she typed unless he'd had a really heavy night on the hot chocolate.

There was a _flap-flap _sound, and someone was sitting much too close to him on the sofa.

"Hello, Cody," said Flying Trenchcoat Man.

Cody stared, and for a moment Castiel worried that he was about to start screaming again, but instead he broke into a smile.

"I knew it," he said, mostly to himself, "I knew it, I knew I'd see you again…" he looked towards the small plastic bag of dried plant on the bench, and grinned. "All the way from Australia, and tastes like rotting toe fungus, even in vodka, but it was worth it!"

Castiel the Flying Trenchcoat Man stared at him inquisitively. "What does rotting toe fungus taste like?" he asked seriously. "Under what circumstances did you have cause to discover what it tastes like?"

"Dude, you are here just in time!" cried Cody excitedly.

Castiel suddenly sat up, looking around anxiously. "Is something going to happen?" he asked.

"Oohhhh, yeah," Cody told him, "When this stuff kicks in, sit back and watch the words fly. Just like you. Castiel The Flying Trenchcoat Man, the Corrector – do you have that pen?"

"Yes," answered the man on his sofa, waving his hand, and, _yes_, there it was! "I am gratified to see that you are keen to resume our discussion. Your companion Robert was somewhat… perturbed by my appearance. Do you have the book?"

"Always," hummed Cody happily, "It's inspired some of my best work." He chivvied Tammy Faye off his lap, and fetched his battered old copy of the Book of Mormon from a pile on the floor, handing it to FTM. The unexpected visitor gazed almost fondly at it, then opened the pages.

"Now, where were we?" he mused, "Ah, yes, the linguistic inconsistencies within the text. They are numerous, and there has been some debate amongst critics and apologists as to whether they are genuine anachronisms, errors, or just liberties taken with translation from 'Reformed Egyptian' into the contemporary English of the time, although of course the nature, actual identity and authenticity of 'Reformed Egyptian' is of itself a argument unto itself … what are you doing?"

Cody's hands were flying across the laptop keyboard. "Taking notes, man, taking notes!" he chirped, gazing in amazement as his fleeting muse, gone from his life after that one epiphanic moment, had suddenly dropped back into his lap, and resumed with the most amazing, inspirational, and utterly uncomprehensible spoken word performance he could ever have hoped for. "I don't want to miss a word of this!"

"Very well," said Castiel, feeling a small flutter of happiness at finding such a willing student, "I will lecture, and you may listen. That is the approach that Robert preferred, too."

Cody nodded eagerly. He could see the shape of his next essay unfolding in front of him, Straightjacked Language Outdated Argument Of Authentic Identity Crisis Teacher Feature...

Tammy Faye, disturbed by the earnest typing, shifted herself to Castiel's lap, where she settled and purred loudly. Later, she amused herself by batting gently at the tip of one of Castiel's wings; he let her do it, because he thought she was just adorable.

All three of them spent a very contented afternoon.

**THE END**

* * *

Ta-dah! That's all, folks! I might even make an attempt to exorcise further plot bunnies as time allows in future. May the Chocolate-Powered Inspiration Fairy visit all of you who write fanfics.

And I formally remove the curse I so rudely placed upon you at the beginning of this story.

**UPDATED 01APR11** - IT'S **COMPLETE! ** Huzzah to the FFN gurus, who apparently have fixed the sites that are playing up, because I can FINALLY mark this one off as Complete! Let's hope this is a permanent restoration. And shame on the people who were rude to the FFN techs, this is free for our use and amusement, and I'm sure the last couple of weeks have been dreadful for them.


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